


The Spare Room

by CreamoCrop



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreamoCrop/pseuds/CreamoCrop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is his domain, his last fortress so naturally he has total control over it. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WIP that is unbetaed. (Sorry for the mistakes, I did tried to edit it on my own.)

Chapter 1. A Sweet Scent

* * *

He had always been neat with his things.

John may disagree with that statement given the haphazardly stacked papers in his desk, overturned beakers in their kitchen and the occasional head beside their milk, but again -

Sherlock Holmes had always been neat with his things.

He has to - impeccable organization skills is vital in keeping an enormous mind palace such as his. Each information had to be properly categorized and neatly stored in their individual rooms. As is, his mind palace - a perfect replica of the Holmes estate - already have 24 rooms brimming with stored information and strategically placed memories, but it is still in dire need of renovation. It seems that the appearance of John Watson combined with the onslaught of cases he'd received had opened a floodgate of new data.

Now, a whole room in the east wing is dedicated to the good doctor while the dilapidated orrery in the library needs fixing - who knew that knowing that the Earth revolves around the sun could actually be helpful? He probably shouldn't have deleted that, it could have saved him a lot of trouble and teasing from John and Lestrade.

He had always kept his mind palace pristine and had made a habit of immediately sorting through his newly acquired data, thus his visits in the otherwise unreachable place had exponentially increased the past few years.

The ground floor had always been dedicated to his family and to his childhood memories that were retained, not out of sentiment ' _god forbid they are!_ ' but because they were the oldest memories. They were the ones he had used to build his mind palace and were so abused by the experiments he had done, while still exploring the potentials of the place, that they had been permanently retained.

For the most obvious reasons, he had always skipped this floor, unless of course he is dealing with Mycroft at which point, the kitchen becomes a gold mine of blackmails and sarcasm. He tends to avoid that place and instead go directly to the second floor west wing where his scientific research and interests have their own rooms, the biggest of which is located at the end of the hall behind brazen double doors and dedicated to forensic science.

Unlike the west wing, the northern wing was newly refurbished. With the appearance of James Moriarty and his claim to fame of being the world's only consulting criminal, Sherlock had to turn two of the rooms into Moriarty's while the rest were divided into all of his cases. Anything connected to Moriarty's crimes and his underground network were stored in the first room to the left. The one next to it, with its black lacquered door barred with heavy chains contains Moriarty himself.

Of course Moriarty is not really inside his mind, it was merely Sherlock's projection of Moriarty. Remnants of the dark character that forced Sherlock to acknowledge the one fact that he has always tried to ignore : that he was a human. A human capable of feeling; a human driven by desire for companionship; a human weakened by the want to protect others. After the Reichenbach Fall and the subsequent wild chase to bring down the network, Sherlock successfully muscled Moriarty behind the door and locked the insane genius alongside his loud taunts and mocking laughs. Occasionally, a scream would resound in the halls but Sherlock is finding it easier to just turn around and wander to a different area.

The east wing - with its six rooms lined side by side, sunlit hall decorated by equally spaced flower vases and walls dotted with famous paintings - is the most normal looking area of the second floor. The air smelled of domesticity, after all, this is the area dedicated to the people who managed to worm their way into his life. For characters like Molly Hooper or even Anderson, a shelf full of folders is situated just before the first room. However, there are people who have done remarkable things for, and with him, that it is only right for each of them to have a room.

The first room was for The Woman appropriately themed as The Red Room. Sherlock was not surprised when he was confronted by the fact that The Woman would have her own room in his mind palace. She deserved that room, for Irene Adler made him feel emotions. Of course he can't be bothered to figure out what those were, they are still probably in a box stowed somewhere in the Red Room but the important conclusion he gathered from his interaction with The Woman, was that sentiment was a dark pit he wouldn't want to fall into. The Woman is an enigma that reminded him how to feel and also why not to feel.

The next room was called The Blue Room. This was the first one to be created in this hall for it was dedicated to D.I. Lestrade. Immediately after meeting the inspector, Sherlock knew that he was one of the few from the Yard that he can actually work with. His recognition of Sherlock's brilliance and humility in accepting that they actually need his help earned him this room. Over the years, Lestrade proved himself to be a capable detective and leader - yes, he's not as brilliant as Sherlock is, but he was able to hold on to his stead despite being surrounded by mumbling idiots. For his division to still function even with the presence of people like Anderson and Donovan, is enough for Sherlock to know that Lestrade would be an important connection. That and the fact that the inspector isn't afraid to manhandle him by setting up fake drug busts whenever he feels necessary also earned him Sherlock's respect, although he'll never admit that out loud.

The following room is also themed with a different color, but what makes The Purple Room even more distinct is the aroma of freshly pressed linens that rises out of it. Without question, this is the room dedicated to their landlady-not-their-housekeeper Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock maybe a self-proclaimed sociopath but he acknowledges Mrs. Hudson as a mother-figure for him and John. The importance of this room shouldn't be discussed any further, his willingness to drop the attacker of Mrs. Hudson out of a window is enough for that.

The adjacent room, with its white-washed walls, lingering scent of musky cologne and general tidiness are telling signs that the said White Room belongs to Doctor John Watson. It is only logical that his flat-mate have his own room in Sherlock's mind palace, but the more pressing concern for the consulting detective is the alarming rate at which the room is being filled with new information. Usually, the first meeting spills all the beans that Sherlock cares to remember but each day with John Watson brings discoveries of - to Sherlock's amazement - not just about his flat-mate but about him as well. He had always deemed social interactions as petty but living with John proved to him that there are some aspects of society that is not as bad as he thinks. For one, having a friend isn't that bad after all. He prefers to keep to himself because he always viewed relationships as tedious and unnecessary. Yes, even after admitting to himself and to John that he considers the doctor as his friend, he still finds it tedious. Yet now, he finds comfort in knowing that someone believes in him.

Fully and loyally believes in him.

At first it felt like heavy boulders forced into his shoulders. It felt like a responsibility that he wasn't equipped enough to handle. The idea of people believing in him for what he is and not for what he knows is too foreign, that he tried to do away with it in the same manner that he does on things he cannot easily analyze. He tried to stow it away in the room adjacent to John's. Behind the nondescript oak door is the place he had designated for himself - the fifth room down the Eastern hall. Truth be told, the room would actually be better off with bars and chains and security comparable to Moriarty's if the number of times he want to be inside that room, is anything to go by.

The room was a dumping ground for all the things connected to him that he would not analyze. It is full of information that he knows, would lead to a dangerous path. Occasionally, he would enter the room just to check its condition but not once did he ever dare shift through it - until the events leading to The Fall. By then, the game had turned personal and Sherlock knew that his trump card is somewhere hidden in that room. Even then, he was cautious and touched only the things he knew were relevant to the situation. Since then, he restored his passivity towards that room.

His stroll through the East wing usually just ends at John's room. As far as he is concerned, he has no business going further, unless it is really necessary.

But something is happening in his mind palace. Something he can't control and can't quite explain and that something involves the furthest room down the hall.

The last room in the eastern hall, the one right next to his, is usually empty. It was the spare room, a place used to house temporary information about temporarily important people or temporarily important events. He always quickly clears that room when the information it holds are no longer of any use to him, and lately, there is a scarcity of interesting information so that room is supposedly empty.

Supposedly.

* * *

_Two year ago. Mind Palace_

It started out a few days after The Great Game case, with a whiff of strawberries that filled the air as he was doing his customary check-up on his room. At first he dismissed it as an olfactory memory of that day's breakfast of strawberry jam, generously spread on his toast by Mrs. Hudson. A few days after that however, the smell returned and this time, he was fairly certain he didn't have any strawberries or strawberry-flavored food. In fact, his day didn't involve anything that should have reminded him of strawberries. From then on the scent would occasionally fill the air, teasing his nose and distracting him from whatever he is doing. But whenever he is about to investigate, the smell would suddenly vanish, leaving him irritated until he was eventually driven to thoroughly search every room in his mind palace for the origin of the smell.

_'It was not from one of his scientific inquiries in the west wing.'_

_'Definitely not Donovan's or one of John's girlfriends and Molly is always cooped up in the lab that she always smells like chemicals.'_

_'Not one of his cases have anything to do with that cursed fruit.'_

_'Probably from one of Mrs. Hudson's baked goods, but it doesn't make sense. Its... food, why would he retain anything about food? '_

Desperate and frustrated that something like this could happen in his domain, he opened the last door he hadn't checked yet - the spare room - only to be overwhelmed by the sweet scent of strawberries. He stood in the middle of the empty room trying to look for a source but the smell seems to flow from the very walls.

_'Strange…very very strange!'_

But instead of wasting his time - something he should be dedicating to his cases - Sherlock just proceeded to reconstruct the room. Upon finishing the menial task, he was sure that the smell would not bother him any longer. However, the moment he touched the doorknob, the sweet scent hit him full force.

For a moment, everything was silent in the mind palace, until a loud bang from a slammed door resounded throughout the halls.

_'Oh for god's sake!_ '

* * *

John watched as Sherlock suddenly jerked in his seat as he violently went back to reality. The doctor had noticed the increased frequency of Sherlock's visits to his mind palace, which is strange because their case is only a six and about to be wrapped up.

"Are you alright Sherlock?"

Upon hearing the voice of his flat-mate, the detective turned his gaze to John and stared for a few moments. John watched as the haze lifted from his friend's eyes and the awareness of reality seep through Sherlock.

"John, give me your cologne" Sherlock demanded as he extended his hand.

"Why?" John only stared at Sherlock's palm. He knew for a fact that Sherlock does not wear cologne. The detective has a personal hygiene of a cat after all -  _only do what's necessary or do only when it's necessar_ y. Besides, cologne is one of his few indulgence, he can't have Sherlock waste something he had spent a few extra pounds on.

"Fine, be cheap stake then!"

Baffled by his friend's outburst, John could only watch as Sherlock rose from his seat to lay siege on their living room by rummaging and turning over their things.  _'There goes my Sunday clean-up.'_

"What in the world are you looking for, Sherlock?"

Instead of answering him, Sherlock continued to frantically search through their living room, even going as far as crouching down to look underneath the chairs. At last, after emerging empty handed, Sherlock turned back to John.

"I need a cigarette. Now! I need this whole place filled with cigarette smoke."

"What, no! Besides, you already have two nicotine patches!" John protested as Sherlock sternly looked at him. He wondered what could possibly be disturbing his friend, that he needs two patches and a cigarette.

But again, instead of answering him, Sherlock merely took a few deep breathes each released through a heavy sigh, but on his third time he suddenly stopped before he could exhale.

"FORMALDEHYDE!" Sherlock loudly declared startling John and driving the doctor even more confused. He then scrambled to their kitchen/laboratory, noisily opening their cupboards until he found the one where John stowed his body parts. Pulling out a big jar with a preserved brain floating in yellowish liquid, Sherlock can't help the grin that spread in his face.

Before John could even register what is happening, Sherlock had already unscrewed the lid, releasing a pungent and suffocating odor.

"Sherlock! What in the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Oh, John! Isn't the smell wonderful?"

* * *

So yes, Sherlock had always been neat with his things.

Except those from the Spare Room.


	2. A vivid trap

Chapter 2. A vivid trap

* * *

He is a master at focusing.

He can zero in on anything and within seconds it would be the only thing in his mind. It also means that he is a master of blocking external stimuli and ignoring people - it really isn't that hard, given the generally irritating behavior of those surrounding him. His ability to easily isolate himself allows him to access his mind palace anywhere without being disturbed and yanked out of it by various distractions. He can stand or sit for hours, looking at nothing in particular while he lose himself in his mind palace.

John is used to seeing him lay in the couch, eyes closed and hands pressed together, still as a statue. Sometimes the doctor fantasizes blowing a vuvuzela in Sherlock's ear just to see his reaction, but that would probably end in another verbal sparring he's bound to lose.

But because of this ability, Sherlock is always accused of being a freak or a snob.

He is fine with that though, for he does not care what other people think. They are after all, the ones missing the fun and challenge of keeping a mind palace.

But lately, something is bothering him more than he would like to admit. It's generic really, too common - and that's what irritates him the most.

How can he possibly focus?

* * *

_Two year ago. Mind Palace_

He swore to himself that he will never enter that room again. Not until it…remains the way it is. But there he was, glaring at the door of the spare room, nose tickling with strawberry scent and right hand hovering above the brass doorknob. If he wasn't so desperate he wouldn't be here, but alas, one box is missing. It's not even important, it's just information gathered during the Christmas party! He filed it away for examination later, when he have the time.

 _If_  he ever have the time.

He specifically remembered placing it in the right, topmost corner of the shelf in the eastern hall. Yes, he considered deleting it, but something tells him it might be helpful soon. He also thought about moving it in his room, but he wants those information to remain impersonal so he ended up placing it in the shelf, close to its source. But later, when he was unloading The Woman's files in the room beside the shelf, he was made painfully aware of its absence.

_'Perhaps he shouldn't have placed it in that eye-catching shade of red.'_

The notion of him, losing information in his  _own_  mind palace is simply ridiculous. Too ridiculous in fact, that he found himself searching for a box that he's hesitant to remember.

_'Oh the irony'_

He was again on a hunt for something he does not want in his mind palace!

By the time he was finished grudgingly searching his own room, he had surrendered to the fact that he will have to go to that last room. It had been months, but the scent was still there and he can't find a way to get rid of it. Worse, he's getting used to it and he's beginning to think that it's transcending into the real world. One afternoon, as he was conducting an experiment at St. Bart's lab, his nose itched with the strawberry scent but when he looked up, he was alone, with the only other movement coming from the steam rising out of a hot mug of coffee by his work station. During the Christmas party, he caught a whiff of it too, but thankfully Molly's strong flowery perfume overpowered it and he was further distracted that night to give it much thought.

He really needs to do something about that room! But first, he must enter it and search for a red box.

Mustering all his will, he finally allowed his hand to twist the doorknob and open the door. As the hinges creaked, Sherlock found himself enveloped by the smell. Strange as it were though, he doesn't find it revolting, on the contrary he finds it...calming.

_'Calming? Really now!'_

Yes, calming, a part of him might not want to accept that but it has long become a fact. Unlike what other people think, his mind palace exists not only for storage but also as a sanctuary. Sometimes he shuts himself in his mind palace to escape the idiocy of society. There he can drop all pretenses, he can be himself - not the freak, not the sociopath, not the world's only consulting detective, but plain Sherlock Holmes.

And  _that_  Sherlock Holmes, finds the strawberry scent calming.

Yet no matter what effect it has on him, Sherlock Holmes is a man with a mission. Immediately after entering the room, he spotted the red box sitting atop a small coffee table situated at the center of the room. He took his time to pointedly stare at the lone furniture before slowly moving towards it to pick the offending box. It was small, light and very plain. Except for the color of the box, its appearance is unremarkable - a great contrast to the feelings it evokes. He gingerly pulled the lid off, spying something silver, before immediately slapping the lid back and slamming the box on the table. He knows what it contains -  _inconsequential_  things - but he refuse to open it. This is one box that will remain closed, just like the other one in the same shade tucked in the bottom shelf of his bedside table.

_'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock'_

Yes, sentiment will give him nothing.

Strawberries will give him nothing.

That box will give him nothing.

_'Nothing! There's nothing in this room. Nothing!'_

The walls rattled as a loud bang echoed through the halls.

* * *

"…and don't they smell wonderful? I thought you boys might be hungry, so I saved some for you."

The first thing Sherlock registered as he went back to the corporeal world, was Mrs. Hudson's cheery voice. She brought snacks for them, and by the smell of it, it's tea and cheese danish.

"Oh thank you Mrs. Hudson. I am feeling a bit peckish. Although I don't think you need to serve tea for Sherlock, he's rather absorbed right now."

The next thing that came into his mind was the color red.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Sounds of clashing china and colorful curses followed thereafter. Mrs. Hudson was startled by Sherlock's sudden booming that she dropped a teacup of hot liquid in John's lap, scalding the doctor and eliciting a series of words that would have earned him a reprimand from the old woman if she weren't so distracted herself.

"Oh Sherlock!"

"Sherlock! What is wrong with you!"

But Sherlock was too occupied to respond. All he can see was the red color. Or to be more specific, the red colored dress that Mrs. Hudson is wearing. It was the same shade of red albeit decorated by black swirls and floral pattern.

"…mess it did on the carpet, and to your trousers John! Does it... "

He could feel pressure building up in his temples. He decided not to retrieve the box but instead he left it on the spare room, resolving to never enter that area of his mind again. But it's taunting him.

"…and you didn't have to shout! You startled Mrs. Hudson. Ow! Ow! It stings a little bit Mrs. Hudson, but I'll just..."

_'It's just a color. It shouldn't be a problem for him. He sees it every time. It's everywhere.'_

It's just a color.

* * *

_'It's just a color'_

For five minutes he had been internally reciting that line as he stare at the shoes of Donovan.

 _Red_  shoes of Donovan.

After the incident at the flat, he had been increasingly aware of anything that's colored in a specific shade of red.

It started off with Mycroft's tie. When his brother stepped into their flat, he was making a conscious effort to ignore the man, but something vibrant caught his eyes and he found himself staring longer than necessary at the older man's tie. The next was Anderson's scarf, it looked ridiculous but it didn't fail to hold his attention for a few more seconds than he oath to. Eventually he started seeing the color everywhere: on a stranger's bag, in a car's paint job, at a tarpaulin and now, in Donovan's feet.

He has a brilliant ability to notice minute details and that always comes handy when he is solving a case or when he is deducing someone but right now, it is annoying him to no end. No matter how absorbed he is with something, a flash of that vibrant color would bring him out of his stupor. Once, while he was going off about his deduction and rapidly explaining it to a stunned John, he stopped mid-sentence when something flew past his peripheral vision.

A red ball.

A red ball, attached to the center of a _clown's face_.

He was seconds from punching something and making a fool out of himself. Fortunately, Anderson stood a few feet away and John's questioning looks brought him back to his litany. After that, he came to the conclusion that his mind is playing him and he resents it.

"Hey, freak, what are you staring at?" The ringing voice of Donovan forced Sherlock to meet the sergeant's eyes. For a moment the woman returned his icy glare then eyed her shoes before settling back for another glare showdown and smirking. "Could you be anymore freakier - having feet fetish now?"

_'Oh how he resents it!'_

* * *

He usually prefers losing himself in the halls of his palace when he wants to be alone. But since he is having technical difficulties lately, he decided to go to the second best place to be alone: At St. Bart's lab.

He likes the silence and the coldness it has to offer. The instruments and chemicals are big factors too.

And the coffee.

And the occasional clumsy attempts for conversation by a petite pathologist.

Molly Hooper may not be the best conservationist there is, but she's an excellent listener. Her unassuming and silent manner makes her the perfect person to rant to, other than his skull. Or John. But the doctor can sometimes be too snarky and sarcastic for his liking. What sets her apart is her occasional quips and sentimental views that allows him to look at things in a different angle.

A human angle.

He may have forsaken sentiment, but he knows it is important for the rest of the world. The quite pathologist allows him to view the world in a human's eyes and for that, he likes talking to Molly Hooper.

But not today.

Not when he is bored without a case. Not with him still having troubles with his mind palace. Not with his mind still picking up the offending color.

Not after that Christmas party. Even if it had been months already.

He's not being a coward. He doesn't have anything to be afraid of after all. He just needs to deal with the mutiny happening in his mind. A mutiny, he knows very well, that has connections with her.

Fortunately, being the world's consulting detective comes with many handy skills like getting past security, breaking down codes, picking locks and being stealthy all the time. He found the lab darkened and uninhabited. Not a single soul in sight. Perfect for a midnight out. Besides, she wouldn't be here, it's long past her shift. If he's correct, and he usually is, she's in her flat, dressed in loose pajamas and snuggling with her cat. She is miles from the hospital and he has free reign in the lab.

He had been so confident with this freedom and too absorbed by the osmosis happening in his slide, that he failed to notice the pitter patter of small feet approaching the lab. It was too late for hiding when he became vaguely aware of the metal doors opening.

He was frozen in place, when he heard a small gasp and a nervous stutter in front of him.

"Oh, um…I- I didn't know someone would be here, or that you'd be here."

Even without looking up, he could hear her shuffling. _'New shoes, bit loose, not personally brought. A gift then.'_  It's already past her shift, but if she's still here, it could only mean that she's taking the next shift too. He should have remembered that she's the type who could easily be bullied into taking extra hours.

 _'Well, that's it for a peaceful night.'_  Good thing he is almost finished. He'll just have to persuade her to let him stay a little. No big feat really, just look at her, give a sweet smile, throw in a couple of compliments and he's good to go.

_'Just as simple as that.'_

He took his time before releasing a sigh and taking his eyes away from the oculars to put his plan to action.

_'Oh for the love of- since when did she start wearing lipstick?'_


	3. The confusion that is you

Chapter 3. The confusion that is you.

* * *

When people are asked to describe his father,  _cunning_  will never fall from the list. The older man is known for his business deals - risky and unconventional but always successful. As for his mother, people find her charming and is often described as having a pleasant way with words. She is the epitome of grace and beauty, as expected from a woman born and bred in high society. They are the definition of a power couple - the husband being the ultimate patriarch with his steadfast control of business and family while the wife is the perfect matriarch responsible for smoothing the edges with her honey-suckle voice laced with undeniable authority.

What people fail to realize is that the secret of this successful pair lies on their elusive  _and_ exclusive ability, one that is passed to the Holmes brothers.

Because of this ability, his father can manipulate his way into anything; his mother can charm her way out of it.

Obviously, Mycroft was at the better end of this combination, otherwise he wouldn't be the British Government. On the other hand, Sherlock is more attracted to the systematic side of this heritage, thus making him the world's only consulting detective.

Oh, there's the prestige of being an  _old money or_ the respect of being in the ruling class  _no matter how discreet they try to be,_ but this ability is what they consider the  _real_ family pride. They see what other people don't see and they use it to their advantage. The Holmes could read people like open books.

A one way mirror passed on to every generation.

...

...

_"You look sad, when you think he can't see you..."_

_..._

_..._

He never thought he'll find himself on the other side of that mirror.

* * *

_One year ago. Mind Palace_

Things have been missing in his mind palace. Boxes and folders gone from their usual place, files disappear like punctured bubbles and items are continuously rearranged. The shelf in the Eastern hall and his room suffered the most - one corner of the shelf is wiped clean and the clutter in his room has noticeably decreased. In other words, the hall is in chaos.

And he doesn't care.

At least for now.

Moriarty is playing another game and over night, the walls of the Northern hall was painted with a big bloody graffiti.  _I.O.U._ The mad man was about to make good of his promise and although Sherlock is doubtful that he'll do it literally  _'He's too grand for that'_ , the consulting criminal will definitely find a way to  _burn his heart._

So yes, he is letting things not connected to the current case, go amok for a while.

Besides, he has a good idea where the missing things are. He'd already seen this situation several times through the months. It's a dreary cycle:

He'll notice the missing things.

The scent would flow through the air.

He'll try to ignore it.

_Fail miserably._

He'll see the open door at the end of the hall.

Much as he resist, he'll take the bait and move to close it.

The same dance over and over again.

_'Boring, boring and horrendously boring'_

Except for the last step, the final flare born from this perfectly choreographed disturbance: the fleeting glimpses at an old room that had rapidly become so foreign. At first there was the addition of a wooden closet at the opposite wall. He was very tempted to investigate but then he caught sight of something black and sparkling hanging inside, and the door was immediately slammed shut. The second time, he saw a bunch of catnips lying at the center of a couch that was not there before, but looked like it had been all this time. The next time he found the door open, he was greeted by a warm glow from a lit fireplace in the left wall. On top of the mantelpiece, a lone picture frame with delicately carved Victorian curves greeted him, and he found himself staring at a beautiful face trapped in a shy smile.

The door was chained after that.

The following day the metal links were hanging on the handles of a new dresser.

The message can't be clearer. There's no point in trying to stop whatever is happening in that room. The best thing to do, one that he has been trying to do all this time, is to ignore it.  _  
_

' _And ignored it shall be._ '

* * *

Of course it's easier said than done. Rather, it's easier  _thought_ than done.

Especially if the person involved is someone he closely work with. That person being the only competent pathologist in St. Bart's as well as the only one who gives access to the lab, ergo the only person who could assist in analyzing the painted wood chips.

Apparently the same person who is about to go on a  _lunch date._

_'Ah, yes a lunch date. Wearing coat - lunch outside, someone outside St. Bart's, not a colleague then. Everyday clothes - not somewhere fancy, no need to impress, not a first date. Someone who always sees her or someone she's used to seeing. Perhaps IT is a colleague. No, bag means their eating far from St. Bart's, not practical if they are. No make up, someone she's comfortable enough to be herself with. Time frame from last known date still shouldn't bring such familiarity. _Not one of her frivolous dates then._ Someone from her past.'_

She's meeting someone that she's close enough to present herself as is. She's meeting someone intimate for lunch.

_'Not anymore'_

Two packs of crisps, one for John and one for her.

"Cancel it, you're having lunch with me" Of course he doesn't eat during cases but he highly doubts that she retained that information.

"What?"

_'Still hesitant, still going to insist on this one. A reminder is in order then.'_

"I need your help. It's one of your boyfriends. We're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty." Resistance is futile. Evidence had already shown that Molly Hooper can't hold a healthy relationship. If a woman can't figure out that she is actually dating an evil man, much less an evil man who was pretending to be gay while also pretending to be interested with her, should be barred from establishing any form of romantic relationship.

_'Too gullible, too innocent'_

"Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

Three times. Even after three times she didn't see what was already in plain sight. The hair, the eyebrows, the underwear, the tacky choice for t.v. show, the xxx kiss marks in text.  _'What kind of man uses such expression during written communication?'_ It was obvious. Blindingly and painfully obvious but she still didn't realize.

"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."

Any attempts at a relationship.

She's simply not equipped for that.

_'Too sentimental. Too open'_

* * *

Fortunately, his previously traitorous ability has finally snapped back in place and he is now again fully absorbed with the case and the analysis of the wooden chips.

"Alkaline"

_'Yes, high levels of alkaline. possible source? Chalk. Chalk from the ground. Soil. Soil rich in alkaline. Lime rich soil/Chalky soil.'_

"Thank you, John"

_'Dry, stony, poor nutrients, deprives plants of iron and manganese. Possible vegetation? Fragaria? Possible but not pref- What? _That's a genus, process of elimination should start from family._ '_

"Molly" A distant voice echoed through him.

_'Fragaria - Kingdom Plantae. Order Rosales. Family Rosaceae. Genus Fragaria. Species Fragaria anan- Of course'_

"Yes" He automatically replied.

 _'Yes, of course.'_ Suddenly the field of view went out of focus.

_'Chalk. Focus. Chalk. Chalk. Voice clipped. Focus. Chalk. Calcium Carbonate. Octave lower, barely audible. FOCUS. Think Chalk. White porous material. Shoulders rigid. CRETACEOUS PERIOD. WHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER. Disappointed. CALCIUM OXIDE. CISSBURY. HIGH PH. CHALK. CHALK. Chalk. Chalk...'_

For the next 10 seconds, the name of the powdery material cycled through his skull, repeatedly chanted to cover the split-second observations and its implications. But it took another 10 before he could stow away one information.

 _Fragaria anannasa_ commonly known as strawberries.

* * *

"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."

It came out of nowhere.

He was fairly sure she just wanted to start a conversation. Whenever they are working in the lab, for some reason she's compelled to engage him into that taxing social exercise. Of course she never sustained it, always hesitating and stuttering with her words - a habit he could never understand - until eventually she either gives up or he puts her out of it by directly pointing her lack of conversation skills. He knows that this is a cause and effect of her environment. She has an affinity for the one thing that most people fear and ignore: death, and her job is not exactly a 'tabletop- conversation-starter' as John would call it. But if you'd ask him, he'd rather discuss causes of cerebral edema than listen to how the neighbor cheated with the gardener. Nevertheless, her fascination for the lifeless created a divide which alienated her from other people and rusted her ability to communicate with them. In turn, her isolation flared her desire for human interaction. All day, she is surrounded by unresponsive bodies and it only follows that she'd try to talk to the living ones that find their way into the lab. He always have front seats to her attempts and he is so used to it that he has no qualms of shutting her down to end her misery.

He thought this was one of those moments.

He may be a sociopath, but he knows well enough that comparing someone to a dead relative, much more a dead father, would not gain enthusiasm from the other party involved.

So how did it come to this?

"Are you okay?" She was facing him, looking at him intently with her doe-like eyes.

_'Of course he's o-'_

"Don't just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you." He had never heard her like this. So confident, so straightforward.

The Woman once said that disguise is the portrait of ones self.

Molly Hooper never wore a disguise. " _I know what that means..._ "

She was as bare to him as the specimens in his slide. " _...looking sad..._ "

So why did her statement echoed through him like some long forgotten taunt?  _"...when you think no one can see you."_

_'I always see you and...'_

"You can see me" Isn't she there? Isn't she in the same plane of space where John is right now? Where  _he_ is right now?

"I don't count." A small smile graced her face, but it looked out of place, considering what she had just declared

The bluntness of the statement hit him full force that he didn't even try to hide its effect on him.

She's there, had always been there - wheeling bodies in the morgue, watching through the observation window, pipetting samples at the work station across his, working on Christmas day or any other holidays...

Always there.

...the strawberry scent, the red gift, the silver bow, the black dress, the smiling face.

Always.

_'Was it because I called her John?'_

And yet she doesn't  _count?_

"What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do,anything you need, anything at all—you can have me. No, I just mean. I mean, if there's anything you need, it's fine."

There it is again, the hesitation. Except during the Christmas incident, she's always holding back from him. It was always like this when they are alone. Whenever she tries to speak it's as if she has everything and at the same time, nothing to say to him. The perplexity of the situation was astonishing. She had been so bold, going as far as declaring that he was sad -  _'Was he sad?'_ \- and then in an instant, dismissing everything with two words " _...it's fine._ " The resignation in her voice is unmistakable, but this is unlike the other times when she recognized that she can't deliver her message.

This time, she's resigning to the fact that she can't deliver her message  _across._

Indeed, the message is not getting across.

"But what can I need from you." Yes, what else can he need from her. She's here, helping in the analysis. Canceling a lunch date with someone important, settling for a bag of chips from what could have been a scrumptious lunch and aiding him with something that she's not expected to be involved with.

She could have walked out if she wanted to. She could have refused him and insisted that she has nothing to do with it. Of course that's not saying that he won't be  _insistent_ but she could have opted not to stay.

And yet she's there.

There is nothing else he could need from her.

"Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually"

When did she become like this? When did she become a layer of contradictions and confusions? How can she declare nothing and then in a beat retract from it and then without missing a breathe, demand a thank you from him?

' _Her line of thought doesn't make sense._ '

He had always seen her crystal clear - the glassy Molly Hooper.

Yet from the moment she told him he looked sad -  _'Did he really look sad?' -_ he was confronted by  _this_ Molly Hooper. He can't recognize her. He can't understand her.

_'Why now? Why is she demanding a thank you now of all times.'_

What is it for? Isn't what he doing enough? He is after all, trying to catch the very same man that played with her sentiment. If there is anyone who should demand a show of gratitude, it's him. He is the one sitting in a stool, looking at shoe oil and trying to decipher the puzzle left by the same man who told lies to her and used her. He was the one who revealed part of the mask worn by Moriarty and yet she walked out of him. He was the one trying to save her time and doing her good, yet there he was, getting side-tracked by seemingly foreign words from a well-known face.

And now she wants him to say thank you!

"Thank you." He said it even if he does not understand what it's for.

"I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? It's okay. I know you don't."

Another contradiction.

_'Molly Hooper, why offer and then rescind?'_

He could have delved further into that. He could have pointed that, call out her moronic statement and bring to light the error of it. But instead, his mind focused on one point.

She knows. She remembers.

Mrs. Hudson still serves him a plate even if it remains untouched and John still coaxes him into taking even a single bite. Every case, they still insist and even though they always fail, they still try.

Molly Hooper didn't.

"Well actually, maybe I—"

He only said it once, in passing, but she listened and she remembered.

She also understood.

"I know you don't."

He watched her walk away, with his hand glued to the microscope and his face etched with confusion.

Molly Hooper told him he looked sad.

Molly Hooper told him not to lie.

Molly Hooper told him she doesn't count.

Molly Hooper told him she's there.

Molly Hooper told him to thank her.

Molly Hooper listened to him.

* * *

He had always been on the other side of the one-way mirror, the seeing side. He likes the feeling of knowing and relishes on the exclusivity of the information.

So when he found himself on the other side of it, placed there by none other than the mild-mannered pathologist, he can't help but wonder why a lot of people loathed him for his ability.

What is so wrong with being understood by someone else?


	4. It's a double edged sword

Chapter 4. It's a double edged sword.

* * *

As cliche as it may sound, he could remember it like it happened yesterday.

It was during one of their family parties. Four year old Sherlock Holmes was doing his best to look absorbed as he watched his father and mother "entertain" the guests. He had just been introduced to the Holmes' version of the world -' _Oh the things he picks up from Mycroft'_  - but he was already very aware of what their parents were truly doing. His father is subtly dealing with business while his mother covers it under the guise of small talks. Looking back, he marveled at how his parents could talk about bringing down a business rival over a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and roasted beef.

_'Mycroft certainly perfected that skill!'_

In the middle of the gathering, he found himself and his brother squeezed in between their parents as the conversation turned into the future of the younger Holmeses. Naturally, Mycroft was first on the plank, and Sherlock couldn't help but be fascinated with the rigidity that quickly enveloped his brother when asked a very harmless question: What do you want to be when you grow up? It was an easy one, something he had asked his brother for a dozen times, each of which he got the same answer. So the young boy was confused with what happened next. Eleven year old Mycroft smiled politely, discreetly flicked his eyes to the left side - a gesture whose significance, Sherlock would only understand after a few years later - before saying with a steady voice that he wants to work for the government.

The declaration was followed with a pat in the head from mother and a chorus of affirmations from the crowd.

"Oh, it wouldn't be hard for a brilliant boy like you!"

"A Holmes boy in the government? Just what we need!"

"I'm sure you'll do great for the country, sweetie."

The brain of little Sherlock wasn't able to process the whole situation with the same astuteness that he now possess, so with a burst of innocence, the little boy raised his voice over the rumblings.

"But Mommy, Mycroft wants to be an animal trainer."

Contented with his honest statement, young Sherlock waited for acknowledgment from the crowd. To his further confusion though, the adults only fell into boisterous laughter and even Mycroft joined with a small chuckle.

"Oh silly little brother, why would I want to be an animal trainer?"

 _'Because that's what you said.'_  Sherlock only clamped his fist and his lips.

Later that night, as Mycroft accompanied him to bed, he asked his brother why he lied to the adults and for years to come, he'd remember Mycroft's solemn face as he answered.

"Because that's what they wanted to hear Sherlock."

Through the years, he became more and more acquainted with the complexities of lies and the troublesome web that each word creates. To Sherlock, it made the world more interesting. Each of his cases were built upon lies and the thicker they are the more complex the problem becomes and the more interesting it becomes for him. For that single reason, he held that human behavior in high regards. It made the truth harder to find and over time, the hunt for it provided him with the distraction that his ceaseless mind needs.

But that's where the irony sets in.

Because for a man who likes finding out the truth, Sherlock Holmes sure do lies a lot.

* * *

_One year ago._

_'Oh he's good. James Moriarty is good. Brilliant. Magnificent. Genius. Clever, clever, clever...'_

_First rule in lying: Tell the truth as if it's a lie_

He made the world see him for what he really is. The world's only consulting criminal revealed himself with so much bravado. The Bank of England, the Pentonville outbreak and the Crown Jewels, all of it for one spectacular display of his capabilities. He wanted the whole world to look at him as he strut his way into prison. He wanted his face to be plastered in all media outlets and he wanted everyone to acknowledge his presence, his identity. The message is simple: a criminal with abilities such as his exists for real. James Moriarty is real.

Perhaps, too real.

_Second rule in lying: Tell only half the truth._

Sherlock Holmes was the truth behind Moriarty's lies.  _Get Sherlock_. If he claims to be the only consulting criminal, then it only follows that he would seek for the only consulting detective. The court proceedings was his way to establish Sherlock's role in their relationship. He can't exist if Sherlock doesn't, therefore he needs the world to see Sherlock too. The case of Hansel and Gretel - the ambassador's children - was a decoy to get the detective moving. Again, the message is simple: A detective with abilities such as Sherlock's exists for real. Sherlock Holmes is real.

Then he made the girl shout.

That was it. That was the beginning. The root of a lie embedded within the truth.

_Third rule in lying: Use misdirection_

There was no key. He only used it to get everyone's attention, including Sherlock's and sadly the detective got too caught up with it, before realizing it was all a ruse. Moriarty was right, it was his weakness: wanting everything to be clever.

_"All it takes is some willing participant."_

Sometimes, the easiest answer _is_  the right one.

_Fourth rule in lying: Keep it simple_

James Moriarty makes the cases and Sherlock Holmes solves them. An utterly simple dynamic exists between these two persona moving at different sides. Sherlock was supposedly on the good side and Moriarty was on the bad side. Then, when everything was so clear and so distinct, he made a sponge out of Kitty Riley and proceeded to systematically blur the lines with two carefully inserted lies.

One: James Moriarty is a hired actor named Richard Brook.

Two: Richard Brook is hired by Sherlock Holmes.

In other words, James Moriarty never existed, and if there were no villains in the first place, there shouldn't be any _heroes_.

_One is without the other_

Simple.

_'Yes, he's good. James Moriarty is good. Brilliant. Magnificent. Genius. Clever, clever, clever...'_

But so is Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

_Earlier_

He is going to die. Rather, he has to die.

James Moriarty plans to kill him in order to finish this story and as it appears, there is no escaping it. Moriarty has cornered him in all possible ways: a case he can't quite solve, a ruined name and a "kill me" sign slapped in his forehead. The criminal has played him right into this trap and now, Moriarty is going to watch him fall.

_"Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."_

Well, if he needs to go down, he's prepared to go down. He is Sherlock Holmes after all. He'll go where no man would, but not without taking Moriarty with him. First though, he must prepare for the final act. If James Moriarty wants a show, then he'll make sure the theatrics won't fall short and for that, he needs help.

_'I need help.'_

A deep sigh reverberated through him as he contemplated on what he was about to do and what he was about to admit. He never liked asking for help because it entails depending on someone's abilities and as it goes, he can't put his full confidence on the results. Unless it comes from him, he can never be assured of the quality of the help he's getting. That doesn't mean he never asked for assistance, but he always made sure that he gets help from those he deems best -  _'At least quality could somehow be ensured'_  - and that they would never make a big impact if the results were opposite of what he expected. Depending on someone lessens efficiency, that is why he prefers doing everything alone. It is all that he have.

_'Lately though...'_

Also, asking help signifies  _needing_  and Sherlock Holmes does not do  _needing_ , not in its truest form. That word should might as well be substituted with  _disappointment_ in his vocabulary. He had seen and heard enough to know that all he has is himself. The world had made him painfully aware of that. Doing things alone ensures that the result would mount to his expectations and that he won't be disappointed. It protects him.

Asking help implies lacking skills, weakness and  _owing._  A crude smile slipped unto his face as the last word stretched in his mind. It reminded him of the reason why he is currently standing in that darkened room, hidden in the shadowy corner while clinks and bangs of metallic instruments float from the adjacent room.  _'Cleaning up. It's almost time'_. He never liked the baggage that comes with asking for assistance and now as he hear the scrapings of papers being neatly piled and the clanking of a file cabinet being shoved shut he was again hit with this dislike. This time however, the implications were not the usual. This time, he is asking for help not because he can't do it or he does not know how to do it, but because…

_"I don't count."_

That was how she saw herself. That's how everybody, including Moriarty, saw her. She thinks that's how he saw her. In light of the recent circumstances, he should be thankful for that opinion because it now appears to be the ace up his sleeves. A sharp-edged ace tearing through his skin. She thinks so lowly of herself, but somehow, what she said insulted him more than her.

Three words. Three simple, ordinary words but she made them mean so much more.

_'How could she do that?'_

The first thing he remembered when they first met was her name. It wasn't because she was some grand exception to his normal habit of dropping unimportant information. It was simply because he immediately realized that she was one of those people. The ones who seemed to be walking under perpetual sunshine with unfading smiles etched upon their faces. When he laid eyes on the petite woman, he immediately cringed upon the idea that he'll have to deal with her  _manner_. Friendly manner. Overtly friendly manner. She's the kind who is immediately comfortable with first name basis and is uncharacteristically helpful to new acquaintances. Of course his observation was spot on. What he didn't expect was that he'll come to appreciate her friendliness.

John would argue that he did more than appreciate, that he actually abused her friendliness. He never understood where that accusation came from.  _She_  was the one  _willing_  to do all those things that he asked. It was her way of existing and she was merely playing her role. Being friendly and helpful was her way of identifying who she really is. It was her way of making the world know that she exists. That's the reason why he could never understand why John accuses him of being manipulative. At best, he thinks that Molly is also using him, that she continues to help him because it reaffirms her and the whole world that she is still the same Molly Hooper - the friendly, helpful woman that she's groomed to be. He was using her just as much as she was using him. He never saw where John's sentiment came from.

Until today.

Now he thinks a slap could have been better. A punch in the face could have worked too, something physical, anything that would leave a bruise in his body rather than this niggling feeling just beyond his ribs at the center of his chest.

_"I…"_

She was always there not because she wanted to but because she knows he needed her. It was never about her or her way of fulfilling her role, it was all him. For him, because of him. With three words, Molly Hooper had just told him how selfish he is .

_"…don't..."_

It had always been easy to make her say yes, to make her do the things he wants. She's the walking yes as far as he's concerned. Now with so much eloquence, Molly Hooper just told him he is a manipulative git.

_"…count."_

He could only work with a few people because he is either surrounded by idiots or incompetent ones. She was one of the few who's capabilities he actually believed in. He thought she knew that. Apparently not, because just a few hours ago and with a sentence that have completely different words, she just told him how arrogant he is.

Selfish, manipulative, arrogant. He was called worse but hearing it in a different way, hearing it from  _her_  actually made him listen. Maybe because he knows he'll never  _actually_  hear those words from her. It would have been better if they tumbled out of her mouth. But no, she'll never say those things because all she ever did was to be honest during that time. Too honest in fact, that her statement came back to him as a mirror. It wasn't enough that she could see right through him, she just had to make him really look at himself. He wondered why she can't just see him in the way other's did. It would make asking for her help easier.

_'She's too good for that.'_

Always too good. She never saw Moriarty for what he really is because she was too good to believe that someone would use her in the way the criminal did. As a flick of lights being turned off broke the silence of the room, he was gripped by an emotion he could only remember from Baskerville except this time, there was no betrayal from his body. At least not something visible. He never wanted to be equated with Moriarty, that's why he's doing this in the first place. but as light steps move behind him, he was stumped with one question.

_'What if she's also too good to believe in him?'_

But isn't that what he wanted? For someone to believe in him. For  _her_  to believe in him. Because right now, with Moriarty looming at his back and his eminent demise dangling in front of him, he can't seem to believe in himself anymore. At least she would believe in him and for him.

_'Wouldn't she?'_

When he heard the doorknob twist, he knew it was time to find out.

* * *

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am..."

_'Because I'm not.'_

"...everything that I think I am..."

_'Because I can't'_

"...would you still want to help me?"

She should say no. Commonsense dictates that she should say no. But even before he raised the question, they both already know the answer. Still, he braced himself as he waited to hear it fall from her mouth.

"What do you need?"

She answered him as if he didn't even ask the question. For he really didn't have to. Instead she skips right to the part where she asks him what she could do to help.

_'Could she make asking for help even more painful?'_

"You"

* * *

She left to do her part on his plan. After his admission, he rapidly fired a simple explanation of what he thinks is going to happen and how he plans to go along with it. He didn't give her any chance to interject, instead he immediately listed down the things he wanted her to do before sending her off. He needed her gone because he has more pressing matters to analyze. Later on, he'll refuse to even acknowledge that these thoughts crossed his mind, but as he's basically a dead man, he allowed himself some slack and his focus reverted back to her last question.

He could have answered her differently. He could have simply launched an explanation of what he needed her to do. He could have immediately dictated his plans and point out her part in it. But, had he opted to answer her in that manner, it would only prove that what he saw in the mirror was right and Sherlock could be rebellious even to himself. Instead, he chose to answer with one word first. It was the truth after all. Only, it's not the truth that she thinks as she scuttles to do his bidding.

She'll never realize it though, because Sherlock Holmes is a brilliant liar.

_First rule: Tell the truth as if it's a lie_

* * *

John is angry with him. If the doctor wasn't so distracted with the condition of Mrs. Hudson, he's sure that by now, he'd be sporting a bleeding nose. Fortunately the blonde man only left with a heated remark, one that weighted him down more than he wanted.

_"Friends protect people"_

John was right, but so was he.

" _Alone is what I have, alone protects me_ "

He needs to be alone and he has to do everything alone from then on. Being alone had always protected him and he knows for sure that this time, it will continue being a protection from whatever Moriarty is planing. Only the umbrella might have increased five times its original size.

Yes, he needs to be alone.

Because John was right.

_Second rule: Tell only half the truth._

* * *

The rush of air felt so cold but oddly comforting.

" _It's all true._ "

The wetness in his face however, felt so foreign.

_"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty"_

His phone ended up broken a few feet away. He won't be needing that now.

_"I'm a fake."_

His arms somehow felt like lead.

" _Tell anyone who will listen to you. That I created Moriarty for my own purposes_ "

He raised them like the wings of a bird.

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

The action won't do much. However, it felt...liberating.

" _It's a trick. Its just a magic trick._ "

The sky looks so grey, so bleak. Not much different with the awaiting pavement below.

" _Don't move_ "

His right foot went first. There was no time to test how it feels.

" _Please, will you do this for me?_ "

He dipped his whole body forward. His other foot left the ledge seconds later.

" _That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note_ "

The rushing images were almost psychedelic. Except for the grey.

" _Goodbye, John._ "

The rush of air felt so cold but oddly comforting.

_Third rule: Use misdirection_

* * *

She helped him wipe the blood off. In the confines of the morgue, he sat on top of the slab as she carefully dabbed a wet towel on his forehead. He watched in silence as she gently wiped across his face, her fingers nimbly touching him and barely making contact. He made no move to stop nor help her. Normally this would have disturbed him, but her close proximity and her gentle actions only brought ease. However, she wouldn't look at him in the eyes.

When the blood was cleared off, she reached to her side for a gauze and as he watched, he realized that even if he was seated and she was standing, he's still towering over her. As she started tending to his wounds, particularly the nasty gash on his left cheek, he noticed the diamond shaped black speck decorating her brown iris.

She still wouldn't look at him in the eyes.

Eventually she moved on from his face to his bloody arm. She continued to move around him, unknowingly enveloping him with the sweet scent he came to know so well. She first applied antiseptic in his wound but at one point, she applied to much pressure, making him flinch in pain and surprise. She immediately said sorry and briefly looked up.

But she still didn't look at him in the eyes.

When she had finished she handed him a change of clothes and his brand new phone. In the midst of the exchange, their fingers momentarily brushed but she neither flinched nor froze, she merely turned her back and marched to her office to give him some privacy.

She left without looking at him in the eyes.

When she came back, he was already dressed and his fingers were hovering above the keypad of his new phone. His plan was already set in motion. All he has to do is step out and start it. He let a sigh escape him before he turned to look at her. She was turning away from him as she started cleaning the slab and putting away the medicine kit. Slowly, he started approaching to stand behind her. She continued wiping the slab clean of his blood and if it weren't for the sudden stiffness of her shoulders, he would have thought that she was oblivious of his presence.

"Thank you." There was really nothing else to say. In fact, he doesn't know what else to say, so he stood watching as she stopped cleaning and slowly turned towards him. He could now see her: the shaky hands, the slightly opened mouth and the red-rimmed eyes, but she still wouldn't look at him. Her eyes remained trained to the floor.

"What are you going to do now?" It was barely a whisper but the deep silence of the morgue allowed him to hear her. She was fidgeting and from the floor, her gaze started to roam towards him, but she didn't lift her chin high enough to look at his face.

_'She's really small. 5'3. Barely up my chin.'_

He waited for her to lift her gaze higher but only when he saw that she already settled her gaze to his shoulders, did he decide to speak.

"I need to take down Moriarty's network, thread by thread." If the declaration did anything to her, he could not tell, because her face remained passive and her eyes went back to her laced fingers.

"So, that's it then?" Her pale hands were still pinkish with blood. His blood. Somehow, he felt an odd sense of relief with that information. Her colored fingers made him feel acknowledged, because her eyes don't. Not when he can't see the diamond black speck.

"Yes." He could tell her more. He could tell her how he plans to roam around London, possibly even the world, while following up leads about the various criminals and assassins connected to Moriarty but he decided not to. The less she knows, the safer it is for her. There's nothing more he could tell her and with the way she's acting, she doesn't have anything to say to him. Nevertheless, he remained in his position for a few more seconds, observing her, taking in every detail old or new, that he could find in her and generally just committing the memory in his mind palace. Maybe, in between chases, he could find the time to visit that room and he'd be able to find new things inside.

He allowed a few seconds more of the cutting silence, before he drew himself to his full height. "Goodbye Molly Hooper."

Her eyes traveled further upwards, not quite meeting his but close enough. "Goodbye Sherlock."

With a steady gait, he turned around and walked away while doing his best to ignore the heaviness that suddenly enveloped his legs. He was almost at the door when her shaky voice stopped him. "When are you coming back?"

He turned around only to be met with the intense gaze of two almond orbs. Finally. He searched for any sign of emotion on her face as he mulled over the question. Her eyes were redder and glazed and she's biting the inside of her lower lip but her hands weren't laced together anymore. Instead, they fell on her sides, hanging like dead weight on her small body.

His gaze went back to her eyes and a sudden urge to say a number or anything of value, seized him. But the thinker in him immediately quelled it and instead of answering, he only gave her a small smile before quickly moving out of the door.

His legs can't carry him any faster as he walked to increase the distance between him and the morgue. He knows that if he wants to win this battle, he'll need to keep up with his own tales.

He is dead.

Dead to the world. To Lestrade. To Mrs. Hudson.

To John.

...

...

To Molly.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

_Fourth rule: Keep it simple_

* * *

For all his brilliance. Sherlock Holmes is certainly human in one aspect.

Lying comes as easy as breathing.


	5. Chameleon Skin

Chapter 5. Chameleon Skin

* * *

When he was younger, he wanted to be a pirate.

There was a large willow tree beside his room whose branches nearly touch his windows. When his fascination for the grubby sea raiders began, he'd climb the branches, driving his current nanny to hysteria, and pretend that he was at the deck of his ship with an invisible crew, fighting their way out of a ghastly storm. Eventually, five year old Sherlock begged his father to get him a ship so he can set sail for the open sea when they go to their vacation house in Aldeburgh that summer. Father quickly dismissed him, saying that they already have a yacht that he can charter when he's older. Seeing that his father won't budge, he then turned to his mother and explained to her how as a captain he has to have his own ship - a wooden ship not a metallic one - to commandeer.

Without taking her eyes off the paper she's reading, she lifted her hand to pat him in the head. "Sure sweetie"

The next day after reception school, he went home to find a beautifully constructed ship perched in the large tree. For a month he insisted that everyone call him Captain William Bloodsmear and he'd go around talking with  _arrgh's_ and  _yer's_  inserted in between his sentences. He'd spend most of his afternoons in his "ship" becoming whoever he'd read upon. One day he'd be Black Bart, the next day Captain Kidd until eventually he read Mycroft's history book and settled to become  _La Buse_. It went on to a point where he'd refuse to acknowledge anyone - except for mother and father - who won't refer to him as his pirate name-of-the-day. He became so good at pretending that eventually the adults realized it's easier to follow his whims and treat him as his preferred sea dog rather than continue treating him as Sherlock.

He'd remember those days with fondness. Those were the times when he could become whoever he wants to be. Well, he  _could still_  become whoever he wants to be, in fact he is still very good at it - the assaulted vicar, the mourning friend - but it's not because he  _wants_  to be but because he  _needs_  to be.

He was so good at pretending, that now it was all he could do.

* * *

_10 months ago. Mind Palace_

He stood in front of the darkened hall, the three-lettered graffiti barely but menacingly visible at the wall across him. Everything was silent, even the default background noise of the grandfather clock in the sitting room is muted. He turned his head left, and looked at the western hall and found himself staring at what could only be accurately described as an indoor forest. Veins decorated the walls, roots strapped the doors in between their woody digits, wreaths of leaves wrapped around the doorknobs and thorny bushes overwhelmed the floor. He can certainly force his way through if he wanted, but that's not saying he'll actually reach the doors, more so open them. He wouldn't need that place anyways. He knows enough of the current case - _'That's what this is...isn't it?'_ \- that he won't have to visit that hall.

His eyes lingered longer to the green outburst before turning his attention back to the hall across him. The doors were all closed save for one. The black, heavy set door was beckoning for his attention, and it's almost too tempting to enter but he knows there's nothing for him there. In fact it's empty, except for a lone apple encased in a glass prison, standing at the center of the room. For now, he needs to go to the one next to it, the room where he kept all files connected to Moriarty and his network, but however strong he force himself to move, he still remained rooted to the spot. There were days when he'd want nothing but to be in his mind palace. Those times were long gone. Nowadays, even this personal sanctuary can't give him comfort.

Or security.

Every now and then a rumbling voice would flow through the air.

**_"Nobody seems to get the joke. But you do."_ **

**_"That's your weakness."_ **

The taunts would sometimes go on forever. On and on like the ticking of a clock.

**_"I'm sooooo changeable."_ **

**_"You're ordinary."_ **

Sometimes, they'd just resound out of nowhere and jab at him when he least expects it and then disappear, not to be heard again until a few days after.

**_"Sorry, wrong day to die."_ **

**_"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock"_ **

Often times though, they'd just linger in the air, one shrill statement dropped every other few minutes. Like this instance.

**_"You need me, or you're nothing. "_ **

…

**_"The man with the key is king."_ **

…

**_"Off you pop."_ **

…

**_"…coffee?"_ **

His head immediately snapped as he felt the vibration of the air die down. He moved his head through the space, straining his ears in the hopes of hearing more. He wanted to dismiss it as a mistake on his part, a malfunction brought by fatigue and lack of sleep and maybe, just maybe...from  _wanting._  But he didn't hear anything else, the palace had resumed it's unpleasant silence. Even the taunts ceased. He wanted to move around, to investigate upon this new development but instead, his eyes fell on the other hall and on to the only other door that had remained open.

_'Perhaps, someday...'_

For the first time in a long while, he actually felt  _assured_.

He also needs his morning coffee.

* * *

Three weeks ago Sherlock Holmes had been officially laid to rest under an unassuming black headstone. Six people attended the service. Mycroft played his cards well as the grieving brother as he stood beside Lestrade whose jaws remained locked the entire time, while John held a statue's stance, remaining calm and collected in contrast to the woman beside him. Cascades of tears fell on Mrs. Hudson's face as her slumped body leaned on to Molly, who held on to her tightly and stood as a pillar to the landlady. Her face was devoid of any tear streaks.

They all stood side by side in front of the closed casket, forming a line between the dead detective and the world who claimed to know him. After the short service, all six dispersed, with Mycroft leaving first to attend to the actual burial of the body, followed by Lestrade who had to go and make sure that the media didn't get a wind of the ceremony that took place, while the rest went back to their own houses.

By afternoon, when Mycroft had already taken care of the plot, the remaining attendants went to pay their final respects. Lestrade arrived just as Mycroft was leaving. No exchange of words happened between the two, only a nod as the older Holmes proceeded to walk away. The inspector went on to stand in front of the headstone, hands clasped in front of him as he stared at the marker. After five minutes of heavy silence and whitened knuckles, the man bowed his head and drew a long breathe before moving one step closer.

"You're a bloody git."

He wasn't trying to convince the stone.

Fifteen minutes after Lestrade left, a more composed Mrs. Hudson and John arrived. The older woman bore an arrangement of flowers which she handed on to the doctor, who then placed it on the foot of the marker. The two stood beside each other until eventually, the old landlady broke into a litany of complaints about the detective's flamboyant and destructive ways as well as the dilemma that his old possessions now present. For all her frailty, Mrs. Hudson held enough grudge that outmatched even that of John's - a proof that she had moved on from denial to anger.

John on the other hand seemed stuck on the first stage.

"...no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie."

How do you convince someone to believe a lie when they've lived out the truth?

The doctor then went on to touch the cold headstone with testy fingers, as if to confirm that it was real. That everything was real.

"I was so alone …"

They both were.

"...and I owe you so much."

They both do.

Four steps away from the stone, he turned to ask for a final favor.

"Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..."

He went on from begging to commanding to crying. Bargaining, anger, depression - three stages in one monologue. The only one left missing was probably the hardest of all, but as he resumed a soldier's stance with eyes thrown far away, one could only hope that he reach it.

All of this happened without them noticing the sixth attendant who remained close but stood far away the entire time. He was watching as goodbyes were uttered at the wooden casket, as it was lowered down the hole, as the stone was erected, as Mycroft supervised the whole activity, as Lestrade glared at the plot, as Mrs. Hudson poured her woes and as John turned into a mechanical soldier, but he didn't linger long enough to wait for the last attendant.

_'She's not coming'_

Why would she? When she knows there's no use. Besides, they had already said their goodbyes and he had had enough of the mourning. That day, he simply wanted to bid farewell.  _'Really, it's almost poetic.'_  Attending the funeral was his own twisted way of saying goodbye to Sherlock Holmes - to the man that he was and to the identity that he can't be. At least not for a while.

As soon as John boarded the car, he too found his way out of the graveyard. The ceremony was finished and he had better things to do than linger around a grave that bears his name but holds a different body.

How wrong he was.

If he had stood in his spot for five more minutes, he would have heard the rumblings of an approaching car. Ten more minutes and he would have seen the car stop and a woman in a simple black dress, exit from the mobile. Five minutes after that, he would have found himself looking as the woman lay a single stalk of azalea underneath his name. Had he chosen to stay, he would have noticed how she remained silent the entire visit, how devoid of emotions her face was, how steady her hands were and how her eyes avoided the golden carved letters. If he had based his decision on  _understanding_ rather than logic, he could have stayed long enough to witness how she retreated from the grave like she couldn't get away fast enough, without breaking into a sprint.

He could have seen the tears. Instead, he was walking away from a life he used to know.

* * *

During one Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Andrew Crowley entered a small inn and politely asked if he could have a room in the top floor with a window facing the streets. As the old man behind the reception table busied himself in fulfilling the request, the lively Yankee remarked how fascinating the interior of the establishment was. He said it was exactly how he envisioned inns in Exeter would be. When asked how long he would be staying, he gave a warm smile.

"Oh, a week would do. Got a tour package to catch."

The following Tuesday, the old man handed the receipt to the young tourist as news of a suicide victim in a nearby warehouse, blared on the radio.

* * *

_9 months ago. Mind palace_

The condition of his imagined estate is getting worse by the minute. Rouge undergrowth crept its way not only in the western hall but down to the rest of the first floor. Intertwined saplings barred access to many areas and low hanging leaves had limited the visibility within. However, the owner doesn't seem to mind. As long as the leafy twines stay out of the northern wing, he doesn't see the urgency of clearing them out. As it appears, he won't be having trouble with that because for some unspoken reason, the greenery seems to know that there are some lines that can't and shouldn't be crossed.

At the moment, he was filing away evidences and data he had collected so far. Right now he is looking for the assassins that Moriarty had installed. Lately he had been gathering information about the burly man that was sent after Mrs. Hudson. He had been following the man's trail all over East Sussex and although the chase gave him a semblance of the life he used to have, he definitely did not enjoy doing the legwork on his own.

He was used to being handed the basic -  _'Really, bone-picked'_  - information by the inspector and even the autopsy report is spoon-fed to him by a certain pathologist. Interviews and locations he can't be bothered to do or visit were done by the doctor. Doors that can't be opened and papers that shouldn't be seen, all lay open for him because of his brother. No, he wasn't spoiled. He still has to do most of the grunt work.  _'It's remarkable how much they would miss if left on their own.'_  Not to mention that he has to do  _all of the thinking_  too. But with them, the foundations are laid for him. Their work puts the border puzzle pieces in place.

Now, he has to do everything alone.

Yes, there's help -  _'There always is'_  - but it's limited. Every now and then, there would be an unmarked envelope in between his morning paper or an encrypted flash drive in his coffee cup. No automatic updates, no instant toxicology reports, no handwritten notes that just appear beside his laptop and no ID cards that could instantly get him through high-security.

He was on his own.

For a moment he thought something lurched behind his ribcage.

_'Stomach. Hadn't eaten for one and a half day.'_

Instead of wasting his time on something he knows would only do more harm than good, he decided to lock his focus on the rest of his domain. The place is getting stuffy with all the brand new decorations, but it was a far cry from the dingy hole he'd been staying at in the real world.

_'At lease this place still has traces of finesse.'_

In its finer days, it's a feat of architecture, enough to be labeled a dream house. Save of course, for the booming voice ringing around.

**_"You're on the side of the angels."_ **

He had been used to it by now. Within the past weeks, he had learned how to stop himself from flinching when the taunts start. Before, it would have disturbed him and would have disrupted his thinking, but as the days rolled by and as he got deeper and deeper into Moriarty's world, the mocks turned into remainders of what he was trying to accomplish and why he was trying to achieve it. The words became his fuel for the vendetta that he was seeking. He had learned to deal with it in his usual indifferent manner.

That didn't stop it from burning however.

At times like this, when he is locked in one of the rooms staring at papers and pictures without a clue of how to piece them together, the words seemed to be whispered right next to his ears.

**_"_ ** **_Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain_ ** **_"_ **

Sometimes he thinks he could feel the rushing of warm air around his earlobes.

**_"_ ** **_Have you worked out what it is yet?_ ** **_"_ **

Sometimes he thinks about the cold pavement and the warm blood that seeped through it.

**_"_ ** **_How hard do you find it? Having to say, 'I don't know.'?_ ** **_"_ **

He thinks of the free fall. He thinks of how everything was  _so_ good…so  _fake._

**_"_ ** **_So boring, isn't it? It's just... staying_ ** **_"_ **

Sometimes he thinks the impact should have been real.

**_"_ ** **_Off you go then_ ** **_"_ **

Giving up never seemed this appealing before.

…

**_"_ ** **_You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always..._ ** **_"_ **

_…_

_…_

Another round of going through evidences won't hurt.

* * *

Young Suzie Bates was too distracted reading her lines that she didn't notice her teddy bear keychain fall to the floor. Lucky for her, a pair of watchful green eyes did. Seconds after the small keychain hit the floor a wrinkled hand reached out and picked it.

"Ms. Bates, I think this is yours."

Upon hearing the hoarse voice, Suzie turned around and settled her eyes on the outstretched hand before her. The upcoming play in their youth theatre was getting on her nerves so much that she's turning into a clumsy mess. She could have lost her precious trinket if it weren't for the elderly guard.

"Oh thank you Mr. Bob, this is very important to me."

"It's nothing Ms. Bates. Good luck on your rehearsals."

The kind smile on the face of the security guard who looked more like Santa Claus had somehow calmed the adolescent.

"Thank you Mr. Bob. I hope you can watch the play tomorrow."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it."

That night, Suzie decided to retreat to her room to rehearse her lines, while the rest of her family sat on their couch watching the news about a bloated body floating along the River Stour near The Friar's bridge.

The next day, the girl was too busy with her costume to realize that there was a new guard at the theatre.

* * *

_6 months ago_

He wants to scream.

He wants to punch the walls and create a gaping hole of decayed plaster and wood. His fingers are itching to hold the cold grip of his gun. His shoulders are aching to feel the recoil. The tightness in his legs is waiting to be released, preferably on a torso, but the bedpost could work as well. The muscles in his forearms are very tense, the need to strike something is flowing in him. His mind is going through all the foil techniques he had learned, noting the correct angle, the right strength needed and the deepness of the theoretical wounds. His eyes looked longingly at the swiss knife stuck in the coffee table.

The want to destroy something is consuming him.

He was standing in the middle of his rented room. His breathing is ragged and his mouth is slightly open, poised to let out a scream he knows, will never be heard.

He wishes his hands were coated in red.

In a few seconds they could be, considering how his nails are deeply digging against his palms and moments away from tearing through his own skin. Frustration and disappointment is raking through him. He lost the trail he'd been following for months. The man he was looking for seemed to have dropped out of the face of the Earth and try as he might, he can't find any other trace. He had been driven up against the wall, to the point where he can't do anything but wait for whatever information his outside help can find. The little control he has left of this situation was now taken away from him. It felt like he plunged right through rocky bottom and in to a whole new level of failure that was created specifically for him.

Now he is not just a dead man, but a dead  _blind_ man.

He wants nothing more than to throw a chair up against the walls.

He can't do that though, because like how he was stuck without a lead, he's also stuck with this  _pathetic_ place. Bashing a furniture in a rented room would only make matters worse for him. He has too much problems in his plate already that he can't be bothered to move out of this place.

**_"_ ** **_All my life I've been searching for distractions._ ** **_"_ **

Speaking of problems…

**_"_ ** **_Just tryin' to have some fun._ ** **_"_ **

The ramblings had successfully pushed past the barriers of his mind now. Even as he's fully conscious and moving in the real world, he could hear the jabs distinctly – as if they are spoken in front of him.

**_"I want to solve the problem"_ **

The words don't just ring inside his head like a pesky inner voice anymore. He could actually  _hear_ it - like it is seeping out of the very walls. The insults are not trying to get out of his skull anymore, now it feels like it's actually being pushed  _into_ it. It's not just in his head anymore but  _everywhere._ He's having auditory hallucinations. The last time he had them, he was still on drugs.

_'Drugs…'_

The thought of his former addiction caused his mind to race off, temporarily quelling the mounting emotions and silencing the unpleasant voice. Some of the tension in his body seemed to have seeped out and even his clenched fist loosened up. He remembered how his addiction started because he was trying to avoid days like this. Days when the world became too much for him – too boring with ordinary people that have ordinary brains living ordinary lives or too interesting with all the puzzles and problems which his mind can't quite processes in one go thus making it necessary to look for more stimulant. This day is a bit of both, he is in the middle of the most complex case he has ever had but is currently dealing with it in the most famous way ordinary people deal with their problems:  _waiting for help._

**_"_ ** **_You're just getting that now?_ ** **_"_ **

At least with drugs he feels happy even if he hears things.

**_"_ ** **_You gotta admit, that's sexier._ ** **_"_ **

He brought his hands to scrub his face. He thought about the florist across the street and the stash she keeps on the bottom drawer just beside the petunias.  _'Source, check.'_  His right hand fell from his face and went to his right pocket to feel the wad of cash that came with his Wednesday blueberry muffin. Unlike his addict days, money isn't an issue anymore. He's a dead man on allowance.  _'Resources, check.'_ Interference wouldn't be a problem either as he looked around his present dwelling.

_'No fly in the walls. No pesky bugs.'_

No one around to lecture him about relapsing. No one to stop a dead man.

**_"_ ** **_Genius detective proved to be a fraud._ ** **_"_ **

Not even himself.

In three strides, he was in front of his door and had already twisted the knob before he noticed the shadow moving against the flood of light coming from the crack underneath. He could only flex his muscles as preparation before the door opened…to reveal a gawky teenager holding a large box.

"Good day sir, pizza delivery."

He only stared at the gangly delivery boy.

"It's anchovies and mushroom sir."

"Yes, I'm quite starving."

' _Not to mention allergic._ '

The muscles in his face relaxed as he took the box and stepped backward at the same time as the delivery boy turned around to walk away. Neither one bothered with payment.

_'Someone's getting quite stereotypical.'_

With his previous plan forgotten, he closed his door and went on to set the box at the small table in the corner of the room. Carefully opening it, he found two brown envelopes instead of food. Relief flooded through him. Gingerly, he picked the thicker envelope and opened it to find papers, pictures and news clips. While scheming through the contents, he felt a throbbing sensation starting to press in his skull, his fingers are getting clammy and his pulse began to push against his wrists.

He allowed himself a few seconds to drown in adrenaline.

**_"_ ** **_You're just a tiny bit pleased_ ** **_"_ **

Yes, he certainly is. He was on track again and he could already feel his brain humming back to life.

_'If one envelope contained these much goods then the other envelope can't be bad either.'_

Anticipation was rushing through him that he carelessly chucked the opened envelope into his bed, resulting to its contents spilling out on his sheets. Without a care for the mess, he turned his attention towards the second smaller envelope. The apprehension coursing through his veins had turned his fingers into butter, making him drop the inconspicuous envelope as he lifted it out of the box. The unsealed package succumbed to gravity and freely released its contents. He watched as it caused a rainfall of colors and images.

It was beautiful.

He frowned at it.

Upon his feet were pictures after pictures of faces he thought he won't be seeing for a long time.

**_"_ ** **_Your only three friends in the world will die._ ** **_"_ **

Scrambled on the ground were snapshots taken from lives that continued on without him.

**_"There's no stopping them now."_ **

_John walking past Speedy's._

_Mrs. Hudson taking out the trash._

_Lestrade talking in his mobile phone._

_John about to enter the clinic._

_Mrs. Hudson carrying her groceries._

_Lestrade at a crime scene._

**_"That's the point of this."_ **

_Mrs. Hudson entering a cab_

_John on a date_

_John on another date_

_John still on another date…with the same woman_

_Lestrade with his children_

_John and Lestrade drinking at a pub_

_John and Mrs. Hudson walking together_

The humming in him stopped. The roaring vibrations from his brain died down. His eyes traveled around looking at familiar faces that looked somewhat  _foreign._  For a few seconds he just looked without processing anything.

He felt detached. Numb.

**_"Aren't ordinary people adorable?"_ **

As if on autopilot, his body bent forward and his right hand reached to the sea of pictures, shuffling through them as his eyes raked through the frozen memories. His fingers nudged photos aside, moving deeper and deeper into the pile, seemingly looking for  _something._  He finds it strange and _ironic_ how he can't seem to put a finger on what it is.

**_"Well good luck with that"_ **

His actions became more frantic and soon his other hand joined the search.

_'For what?'_

**_"What? What is it? What did I miss?"_ **

_John and Mrs. Hudson having lunch together_

_Lestrade having a pint with his wife…no, ex-wife_

_John and Lestrade talking on a sidewalk_

His hands continued brushing past shots.

_Lestrade at a press conference_

_Mrs. Hudson having a cuppa_

_John walking a dog_

**"… _other knights began to grow tired of his stories_ _._ "**

His hands stopped short. Something clicked, he isn't sure what. The need to search for  _whatever it is_ disappeared. His body drew a long breath but it didn't fill his lungs. His dress shirt felt tighter, especially around the chest.

The envelopes lost their appeal.

The mess at the floor and in the bed stayed, as the room lost its only occupant.

**_"Tell me what's wrong"._ **

* * *

Julie Cox always identifies her customers with their favorite poison. In her line of work, names don't matter –people often forget them after five shots – but the drinks do, so it only takes three visits to the bar, for a patron to get his or her own nickname. Tonight she have Mr  _James-Bond-wannabe-shaken-not-stirred-Martini_  sitting alone on a corner booth, there's also  _Ms. Definitely-Lost-her-Cherry_  flirting her way into  _Mr Mojito-papito's_  table. She usually doesn't care whatever her customers are doing as long as they can pay, but tonight her attention was caught by the only other man in the bar. She thought she dropped her knickers when the fine specimen walked in.

"Hi, a Perfect Manhattan please."

If not, then the smile definitely vaporized it.

The whole night she was painfully aware of the suited eye candy sitting just a few feet away but when the customers started to pour in, she got so absorbed that the next time she looked at his spot, he was gone. It took her three days before giving up her hopes of seeing the man who almost became  _Mr. Truly-Perfect-Manhattan_. The next day, she was informed that  _Mr. White-surely-a-Russian_  was found behind an alley, beaten to death.

* * *

_5 months ago._

He is vaguely aware of the tension building up in his neck as his body had been sitting straight for hours already inside a train bound for Edinburgh. If he doesn't pull out from his mind palace and stir his body to a more comfortable position now, he will surely have a irritating stiff neck when he arrives in his destination.

He stayed still.

Body pain is of little concern to him, migraines could be cured with a pill, hunger could be driven away by food and stiff necks could be lessened by stretching. He'd rather deal with those than seeing the bag occupying the sit next to him – secure enough to be within his reach but far enough to lessen the discomfort it inflicts. It's not the bag  _per se,_  it is just a generic black backpack but it has more to do with the contents that were hurriedly shoved within: one pristine envelope with carefully organized contents and another one full of creases and tears, signs of mindless packing. The information he had received was very useful and he became very immersed again that the pictures were left spilled on the floor until it was time for him to leave. By then, he just carelessly piled them and pressed them inside the wrinkled envelope before quickly dropping it inside the bag, treating it as if it's melting his skin.

He had half a mind to throw it in the trash bin but decided against it when a voice stirred him into paranoia.

**_"…nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger."_ **

The fate of the envelope was then sealed. It was going to stay deep inside the backpack, most likely never to see light again.

Knowing that it exists didn't do any good though, more so that it is near and will be trailing him all throughout. Even as he trudged through the train station, the bag somehow felt hot against his back. He'd have to find a way to contact his  _help._

_'Excessive helpfulness is never good.'_

He knows why he was given those pictures, a sign of assurance that everything is going on smoothly and that everyone is safe and harmoniously living out their  _lives_.

Lives he once was part of.

He felt something constrict within his ribcage. Lately he had been experiencing that a lot. He had come to learn that it wasn't his stomach seeking for food. It was another organ, a very misinterpreted and misrepresented organ. He thought it was ridiculous. He isn't one to fall for such idiosyncrasies and he isn't planning on starting anytime soon.  _'But if there's smoke, there's fire. Right?'_

Drawing a ragged breathe to ease the tightness, he thought about how the next time a delivery comes in, he'd send back a dozen Caledonian Crèam Pudding, as a show of gratitude and spite.

_'Mostly spite.'_

Knowing that he is trudging on dangerous grounds, he decided to return his focus on his conjured abode. Shutting the tingling feeling in his neck and the coiling in his torso, he allowed himself to fall back into the corridors of his palace. Moriarty's case room is already very cluttered and files are starting to litter the floor, but in the midst of this systematic mess, a name is rising out of each data.

A name that could end this hunt.

An identity that might as well be the key to his coming back.

_'Back home...'_

_'Home'_

_John_

_violin_

_Mrs. Hudson_

_221B_

_Lestrade_

The words swirled around him as he allowed himself to think, for the first time in a long while, about everything that's waiting for him in London. The words and the memories had somehow ebbed the tightness within him and he soon found himself lulled into familiarity and calmness.

_cases_

_experiments_

_skull_

_coffee_

_smiley face_

_**"...maybe later, when you're finished-"** _

His body jerked forward, an action that didn't do any good for his neck, and his eyes snapped open as something clicked within him. With a whip of his hand, he reached for the bag next to him and carelessly tore it open. Before he could even think, his left hand was already taking out the more battered envelope and his right hand was already pulling out a wad of photos. However, upon seeing the smiling faces of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, it was as if someone doused him with cold water and the abused envelope with its contents was shoved deeper into the bag which was then chucked underneath the chair and left to be ignored until it was time to leave.

As he made his way out of the busy station and into the big city, with the black backpack hanging behind him, he couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't seen one picture of a certain pathologist.

* * *

Mrs. Edith Cole always spends her afternoons at the small park just across her house. She always seats at the same bench every 3 o'clock in the afternoon to watch as the world moves around her. Her aging body had taken comfort on hearing little children giggling as they chase each other and on seeing young couples in love and families enjoying their time together. The park maybe small but a lot of benches are dispersed all around and visitors generally prefer lounging on their spread out picnic sheets, which is the reason why the elderly lady was surprised when she arrived one Tuesday afternoon to find the bench already occupied by a young man. Wearing a black ball cap and dressed in a simple grey jumper and black tight trousers, the young man was busy fiddling with his phone. His ears was plugged with earbuds and his head was bent in concentration that he didn't seem to take note of the presence of the elderly lady that was approaching to take residence on the other side of the bench.

However, when the seat shifted due to the addition of Mrs. Cole's weight, the man's head shot up and the older woman was met with the most enticing pair of eyes she had ever seen. With a small smile and a nod, Mrs. Cole's presence was acknowledged by the stranger before his attention went back to his phone. Time relatively passed in silence, broken only by the occasional buzz of the handsome young man's phone. Eventually, Mrs. Cole decided to take out her prepared tuna sandwiches which, she was kind enough to want to share with the silent man. Tapping the man in the shoulder, Mrs. Cole gained his attention and gestured to her offer. The man's face lit up and he quickly took off his earbuds.

"Oh, thank you ma'am. It's very kind of you." The young man flashed her a charming smile and didn't show any signs of shyness as he accepted the food.

"It's nothing dear. I've packed quite a lot today." Somehow, Mrs. Cole was already fascinated by the stranger despite their short interaction.

"Oh, this is delicious ma'am. Is that...red wine vinegar I'm tasting? Ah delightful!"

Mrs. Cole was taken aback by the discovery of her secret ingredient. Nevertheless the enthusiasm radiating from the man warmed the heart of the old lady. She was about to ask how the man identified her secret addition when his phone buzzed again. Whatever it was seemed to be good news as the man's face grew into a bright smile.

Not one for subtlety, Mrs. Cole broached the subject with her lightheartedness. "That one must be very special, seeing how a single text could brighten you."

"Oh yes, she's very special indeed."

"I bet she's very pretty."

"Yes. Very beautiful. Would you like to see?"

"Oh, such a lovely one. What's her name?"

The man's smile grew wider and there was something in his eyes that Mrs. Cole can't quite explain.

"Her name's Molly."


	6. Of Minds and Mazes

Near death experiences are now explained as the brain's defense mechanism as it goes through rapid oxygen depletion. The brain seeks comfort brought by flashes of life experiences while it slowly dies. It serves to give a moment of serenity and a false sense of security as the body acknowledges the impending end.

Apparently, watching every moment of a life thoroughly lived, is supposed to calm the brain.

_'How wrong they were.'_

At least in the case of Sherlock Holmes.

However, he is neither dying –technically, he's already dead- nor is he truly having a near death experience. His mind however, is ceaselessly flashing moments of his life, and he is not taking any pleasure from it. Instead, it racked him with fear and guilt, feelings he never thought he'll experience again after he made the jump. It's like watching a silent movie, except his brain is making annotations of everything that he could have done.

Should have done.

His brain had always been his biggest ally, but now it has turned into a formidable enemy. It taunted him with all his failures. It reminded him of his weaknesses. It has become his very own implanted Frankenstein. With every memory, a chip of his confidence flakes away. Self-doubt is slowly wrapping itself around him. He had to continuously remind himself of how damaging that could be.

_'The H.O.U.N.D. Remember The H.O.U.N.D.'_

He could again see the monster in the shadow, except, there is no John Watson that would serve as a comparison, as a reassurance that what he is experiencing is normal; that fearing is normal.

 _Sentiment_  is normal; the solar system is normal.

The sun and affections are the same for him. He is aware of its existence, he knows its purpose and how it works. But beyond providing energy for Earth or serving as motive for a crime of passion, he just doesn't bother with them. As long as he wakes up to see the world functioning with its daily ration of UV light, he doesn't care if it comes from a huge ball of fire or from a glaring eyes of a Teddy floating in space. As long as there is a dead body, he can't be bothered with the crying, stuttering and broken statements or any other public display of affection from distraught relatives. Let them hang in the air. Except, when the air suffocates him during that eight and a half minutes when the sun is already dead, or when sentiment seeps in and cripples him during a case. That's when he needs people who understands and knows how to deal with them.

Like John.

Only, the doctor is not present at the moment and the only man sitting in front of him is not exactly helpful. Mycroft Holmes experiences sentiment, that he had always been sure of. But Mycroft was not labeled  _The Iceman_ for no reason. It is one of the forks in the highway of the Holmes' lives, because while he had ignored the notion of sentiment, the sensation of  _feeling,_ his brother reveled in it. The older man allowed himself to be immersed, he chose to understand and work with it. Now, his knowledge had allowed him to cultivate a better defense against it.

 _"Know_   _your_ _enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles –_ Mycroft is really a war general at heart, -  _if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one –_ meanwhile, Sherlock is losing himself.

He took a deep breath and focused at the images of the streets that ran past them. No, itis  _them_  that is running past the streets…

He's having a hard time focusing.

He wants the car to move faster. He wants the images to blur, to merge into a disgusting fusion of colours. Perhaps if he vomits he'll get rid of the sick feeling in his gut.

"Breathe, Sherlock."

His eyes flashed at the older man. "If I wasn't breathing, I'd be dead right now."

Oh, wait, he  _is_ dead already.

"Well, you certainly look dead."

He feels dead.

If dead means hopeless.

"Can't this car get any faster?" Of course it could, only they may never get into their destination. It was a stupid question but he didn't retract. He needs Mycroft to engage him in one of their banters. He needs to be distracted.

"We'll get there in time. With this car, I always get anywhere in time." Mycroft patted the car seat as if it was his running horse.

Of course Mycroft chose today of all days not to humour him.

"You weren't there in time to stop Moriarty." It was a low blow. Very low, even for the standards of the Holmes brothers, but he did give Mycroft a chance.

"Yes..." The older man's lips suddenly drew a thin line. His eyes turned glassy and his hand tightly gripped on the handle of his umbrella. A dark look fell over his face. "…and I will live with that for the rest of my life."

Sherlock stepped past the line and he knew it was too far. In the process of throwing a massive missile for his guilt-trip catapult, he had created another ball of shame for the shackles attached in his gut.

Curse his newfound attachment with sentiment.

Mycroft had always been instrumental with helping him. The man had been, in every sense of the word, a big brother. Something just went wrong along the way. Was it the age difference? The drugs? The failed expectations?

No, they simply grew up.

It wasn't  _Myc and Lock_  anymore. It was The British Government and The Only Consulting Detective. Somehow the word  _brother_ got lost in between.

Or so he thought.

Apparently, Mycroft never forgot.

Perhaps when everything is finished, if it ever gets finished, they could try to have a semblance of a normal brotherhood. However for today, he'll deal with Mycroft in the same way he had been dealing with his brother since he was 7 years old and was told that he'll never be a pirate.

He'll look at Mycroft Holmes and think of him as the bearer of bad news.

* * *

**_Earlier…_ **

Sherlock always knew that his brother has a penchant for drama, their relationship case in point. But sitting across a steel table, inside a windowless room lit only by a hanging lamp, with a plain folder at hand, was just too cliché.

"Hello brother." Mycroft's smile was far from congenial. "Please, have a sit." He gestured to the chair directly opposite him.

Even before he entered the cold room, Sherlock was already nursing a strong urge to leave, he always did when it came to his brother, but Mycroft initiating a personal meeting could only mean that something serious had happened.

Or will happen.

"Just get to the point Mycroft." He remained standing.

"Well then…" His brother opened the folder and laid several pictures in front of him. "Do you recognize any of these?"

His only response was a pair of eyes swimming with boredom. Even with just a glance, he could already see the lifeless bodies and the stories they tell in each photo placed neatly in line.

"Clive Erickson" Mycroft tapped at the first shot to the left. "Last February 25 his body was found in an abandoned warehouse in Exeter. His death was ruled as suicide." The older Holmes fixed his brother a passive stare before moving his other hand to the next photo showing a hunched body. "Alexandra Dela Merced. March 3, died of food poisoning in Tandridge." When the declaration was met again with silence, he went through all the other pictures laid in the table.

"Dexter Philipps. March 26, Canterburry. Reports show he was drunk, lost his footing and drowned in The Great Stour. "

"Jacques Duval. April 5, Gedling. Died of anaphylaxis. Soy Milk."

"Clinton Desmond. May 18, Warrington. Car accident, lost his brakes."

"Radko Dorokhov. June 25, Hartlepool. Mugging gone wrong, beaten to death."

As Mycroft's hand left the last picture, a staring competition ensued between the brothers. Eventually Mycroft broke the silence. "Fancy ways to die, don't you think?" The eyebrows of the older brother inched upward in mock humor.

"Especially for an illegal arms dealer…" His hand pointed back to the first shot before moving to the next. "And for a human trafficker." He then looked up to see if he garnered any reaction from Sherlock. When he was greeted by the usual stiffness, he again went through every picture, pointing at each of them as he cited their  _jobs_."A drug lord, a gun for hire, a smuggler…" Without a break, he gestured until he reached the one that showed a black and blue body. ''And a gangster boss.'

"Point, Mycroft?" The younger Holmes was getting impatient. There were other things to do and people to focus upon.

"My point is that either the angel of death decided to clean England and the rest of the world of its notorious criminals within this year." Mycroft laced his fingers underneath his chin and fixed his brother a cold stare."Or someone had decided to get very busy these past few months."

* * *

The building is eerily quiet, the marble halls are empty – no furniture, no decorations, no other living being. It is just him and the white-washed walls. His eyes danced across the corners, spying the only other materials that didn't belong to the construction: speakers and CCTVs. It is obvious to him that they are all newly installed. Clearly, someone wants to watch and talk to him. The corners of the ceiling are strategically dotted with cameras that would capture every part of the floor.

_'No blind spots.'_

He smirked at the thought. Whoever came up with this, is clearly a planner, a control freak and just a tad bit paranoid, as shown by the excess CCTVs for overlapping angles. Everything that he will be doing would be seen and observed. He will have no privacy. Other people might be bothered with that thought, but not Sherlock. It only made everything more  _exciting_ , after all the best tricks are those that hold no secrets.

The speakers on the other hand, are mounted on the center beams. He slowly walked through the hall, eyeing each white equipment and waiting for the moment that they would cackle. His ears pricked for the voice that would vibrate through the air. He briefly wondered what note and decibel it would be. Though he wouldn't be surprised if it is computer generated, seeing as the person wants to play Big Brother and wants to remain above the situation. It is clearly a  _guinea pig scenario._ The setup suggests that he would be prompted and observed for a reaction. The other person obviously has an advantage, but even this early, Sherlock could already see the hole in this sinking situation: the CCTVs register sounds as well. He could be heard, he could talk back, and therefore he could provoke for a reaction.

If there is one thing that he clearly excels at, it was provoking people.

_'This is getting rather fun!'_

While waiting, he made his way through the ground floor. The hall is brightly lit by the sun coming through the tall windows. The floor is airy and spacious and on the far end is a marble grand staircase. He stopped at the middle of the room, just a few feet away from it, and lifted his head to look at the banisters of the 2nd floor. His eyes scanned the upper horizon and his ears strained for noises. Nothing. It seemed like even the 2nd floor is empty. He tried to gauge whether the other person is in the building. So far, evidences supports that he is. Of course he'd watch. This is his game and he is just as twisted as his master.

_He._

Yes, Sherlock already knows who  _he_ is. At least he thinks he knows, but when Sherlock thinks, he's always right. Who else would invite him over? Who else would prepare all of this for him? Obviously, the man is just as excited as Sherlock for this meeting. They have both been waiting for this. All those months of traveling, hiding and searching amounted to this moment. However, as Sherlock did a quick 360 turn around, he felt his excitement drop.

"Having fun watching me?"

He looked at the nearest CCTV and focused his gaze at the camera. The only response he got is that of the lens zooming in on him.

Sherlock smirked. "Clearly you do."

Slowly and deliberately, he made his way towards the staircase. "However, as fun as being watched is, I'm rather keen to move this along."

With light feet, he took his time in ascending the staircase. "We've both been waiting for this. I'm actually flattered that you went through all this trouble for me. Your  _master_  would be very proud of you." The game had begun and what more fun way to wake someone than to rub a sore spot.

"Tell me, what did you do for him? Did you have a funeral? I never knew what happened to his body after I left London." As he reached the top landing, he offered the most puzzled face that he could, to the first camera that he saw.

**"We both know that's a lie."**

His face dropped. He had no time to control his body and he immediately felt something punch against his ribs.

**"You've read it from Mycroft's report. You know that the body vanished. Right, Mr. Consulting Detective?"**

That report taunted him, had always taunted him. But its implications are immediately covered by his current situation. The missing body of the consulting criminal now seemed like a fly compared to the mammoth flung in his face. Because now, he is rooted in spot as he listened to a very  _very_ familiar voice.

**"Oh wait, you don't call yourself that anymore since _that_ day. How should I call you then? Oh, I know…"**

His breath spiked as he hanged for the continuation of the statement.

**"Hello… sexy."**

The greeting released the dam that had been breaking since the speakers came to life.

"You…" He began, but there is something blocking his throat.

**"Yes, me…"**

He doesn't need to see the face to know what it looked like. The voice is enough. He didn't even consider if it is fake and generated from a software

' _Having excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'_

It isn't even impossible, in fact, it's the perfect explanation.

**"Oh this is rich! Have I stunned the great Sherlock Holmes into silence?"**

It made perfect sense.

He took a deep breath and scrambled to put his body in order. It won't do him any good if he looks shaken.

"You're alive." It is a statement of finality, not for confirmation.

 **" _You're_  alive** **,"** the voice spiked. **"…so I don't see any reason for me not to be."**

The voice lingered all around him and it ran through his nerves like a dozen blades. As a response, his feet began to move around the hall running alongside the banister. Movement keeps his body in check. Flexing his muscles, drumming his fingers against his thighs and stretching his limbs helps him calm down. However, he needed to decrease his steps, lest he will look perturbed. He can't give anymore bullets to the other side.

"I suppose you're right. I must say, your suicide is quite convincing.  _More convincing_  than mine." He's freely handing out a compliment because he needs a reaction, and with that man's ego, he will surely get one.

**"The simplest things are the best ones after all."**

That is not what he was looking for. He was expecting some gloating, some sarcasm, not some knock-off variation of an old adage. It didn't sit well with him. Something didn't feel right.

_'Nothing about this should feel right!'_

"So, would you mind sharing how you did it?" As he walked, he noted how all of the rooms have their doors opened. The corners of his lips twitched upward. It is clearly a silent invitation.

" **You didn't reveal yours, why should I?** "

He entered one of the rooms. It's empty, but he clearly caught the cameras as they swiveled to focus on him. He smiled at them.

The simple gesture is enough to convey that the message is received.

"If I do say how I did it, then I take it that you will be bound to do the same?" Of course he will never reveal it. People were involved in it;  _people_ that he can't afford to get hurt.

**"But I don't need you to do that. I already know."**

His entrance to another room momentarily halted. For a second he is again stumped by the voice and he felt the spike of adrenaline in his veins. Although this time, it isn't a welcomed feeling because it is accompanied by something gnawing in his gut and a sinking sensation in his ribs. Fortunately, the narrowing movement of the lenses of the cameras brought him back. He is able to keep his face neutral and he continued his stroll inside the room with all the nonchalance that he could muster. However, he can't do anything with the pause in his movement that he knows, was duly noted over the monitors.

"How did you know?" He is genuinely curious and concerned. This conversation is dealing so many blows to his ego. Twice, he had been outwitted. One more and he'll explode.

 **"Details,"** the voice said dismissively. **"I'd rather that we focus on what is happening now."**

Something about that statement twisted him in the wrong way. Again.

Details is what keeps  _him_ alive. Now, he is passing the chance to explain and impart his wit just to focus on the present. That can't be good.

"Why? What is so important about now?" He continued his inspection of the other rooms. So far he had covered four. From his estimates of the floor plan, he has twelve more rooms to look, the rest of which are divided in the other three wings.

" **We both know what is happening now.** "

As the voice died down, Sherlock paused in the middle of crossing the hallway and stared at the camera as if he is looking at the very eyes of the speaker.

"The game is back on..."

Freezing silence fogged his surroundings as his statement soaked through the walls.

 **"Wrong."** The voice is reeking with smugness.  **"It's not _back on_  Sherlock."**

Unconsciously, his body straightened and he bristled with the declaration. "What do you mean?"

**"It's about to be finished, because if you haven't noticed yet…"**

There was substantial silence and he _almost_  rolled his eyes. Why does the spider have to be so dramatic?

**"…you're already losing."**

* * *

**Earlier…**

Electric blue eyes hardened as a pair of gloved hands landed on top of the table. The younger Holmes leaned on the furniture before speaking with a low and almost feral voice. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean, brother…" The British Government also inched forward and met his brother's steely gaze, with his icy ones. "…is that apparently, you're not the only one running around destroying Moriarty's network."

* * *

He had already cleared off two wings, which means he has eight more rooms to go. The cameras continued to glue their line of sight at him. His movement would cause a ripple of action that would make the lenses swivel side to side like dominoes toppling over in order to keep up with him. The speakers however, remained mute. For a while he had been left in silence. He wondered if Moriarty was keeping his silence because he was mulling over their situation or if he was just doing that to get a rise out of Sherlock.

To which, he is successful.

"Why don't you just come out?" He stood in the middle of the ninth room he had inspected. Of course it's empty. There is a niggling sensation at the back of his head that tells him this is going to be a _cliché_  situation - the  _last room_ _situation_. His mind briefly calculated the odds. He really has no time for this and as much as he loves to play the  _game,_ he's getting tired of hide and seek.

**"Where's the fun in that?"**

"Where's the fun in hiding like a  _coward_?" Moriarty made the wrong move of sticking a thorn in his side by declaring that he is losing. He is far from it. He had dismantled the spider's web and all of the important  _people_ are protected by Mycroft's men. The consulting criminal will have no leverage against him. As far as he could see, it's just the two of them in the game field. Inside this empty building and stripped off of their outside help, both of them only have themselves to depend.

**"Someone's getting moody. I'm not hiding, you just haven't found me yet."**

"Tell me why you are doing this." The tenth room is empty, six more rooms to go. He is getting pissed off, and a large part of it is due to the fact that Moriarty now seems to be speaking with double meanings. The spider's attitude is putting him off. Everything is already wrong from the moment Moriarty's voice zapped through the air, but what unsettles him more is the way he is speaking. This is not the James Moriarty that he knows.

**"I like watching you squirm. I like watching you wonder around."**

**"** Ah, being true to your nature of being a spider then? You hang back around as you watch your prey helplessly struggle against your web. **"** The eleventh room is also empty, one more room in this wing and he's down to the last four.  _'Really, what are the odds?'_

"However, I don't see any web. Seeing as  _I destroyed it._ " He allowed his haughtiness to flow from his words. Moriarty is not the only one who can play mind games.

The next room is empty too. Four more.

Silence reigned for a while as he made his way to the last wing where the remaining rooms were lined. The delayed response definitely lifted his spirit.

**"Oh, but nobody said there is a web."**

He didn't even enter the first room when he reached the opened door. He just stood frozen as he stared at the opposite wall. Something is whirring at the back of his brain. The statement again perturbed the flow of his thoughts. Moriarty is speaking in riddles again, the consulting criminal is happily exploiting his dislike of riddles. He regretted giving that piece of information. Upon realizing that he had remained rooted long enough in one spot, he willed himself to move to the next room.

"Are you telling me that you've become a homeless spider?"

As expected, it's empty too. ' _Does Bayes not apply in this place?_ ' He moved on to the next one as he waited for a response. The silence from the other man satisfied him. It seemed like he hit a nerve. He is not surprised to find that the next room is empty too. That almost elicited an eye roll. He turned to look at the last room. From his vantage point, all he could see is a bare white wall, but the room is big and there's plenty of space he hasn't seen yet.

Plenty of space enough for one of its corners to be littered with plasma monitors, a PA system and a swivel chair cradling a man with his back towards Sherlock.

**"Nor did anyone ever said something about a _spider_."**

* * *

**Earlier…**

Tension rolled on the shoulders of the younger Holmes as his brain processed the new information. The older brother on the other hand, remained dangerously calm and detached. Mycroft only watched as his brother's jaws locked. He knew what's going on in the mind of the younger man. The siblings take pride in their superior intelligence, although Mycroft has learned to downplay it to his advantage while his brother is brutally obvious about it, to the point of it being mistaken as arrogance. Therefore it was quite understandable that to be played like this was unnerving both of them. The incident with James Moriarty was more acceptable because the man was a genius and his madness proved to be a complex albeit dangerous puzzle for the brothers. The other man however, was merely a pawn that was turned into a queen.

As it turns out, a very aggressive queen.

* * *

 **"** Hello Sherlock"

From the moment he walked inside this building, Sherlock could already point out many different things wrong about this situation. However, the one in front of him now, trumps every single one of them. His breathing is reduced to short raspy shallow sucking, his heart pounds against his ribs like a pneumatic drill, his hands are clammy and his skin feels like it is being stretched away from his bones. Whatever control he has over his body dissipated into thin air. It felt worse than coming down from a high.

It felt like fear.

As he stared at the face in front of him, he felt logic slowly slip out of the situation. An image of a monstrous dog flashed before his eyes. For him, nothing had felt scarier than that, not even death. Logic had always kept him in line, and in the moments when the world seemed too trivial for him,  _if_ and  _then_  smoothens it out. Now he is thrust into a scenario completely devoid of logic and he feels like a blind man at the edge of a precipice.

A symphony of hiss rose in the air as each of the monitors in the wall began to replace their feeds with snowy static. One by one, the rooms faded into a dancing blur of black and white and somehow it felt as if the symbolism transcended into reality. The orchestra of white noise swept through the room and pressed against his ears, almost to the point of rendering him deaf. However, the man in front of him remained passive. He isn't showing any form of distress or discomfort. That greatly aggravated Sherlock's condition.

"I've always thought it was common courtesy to return a greeting."

All at once, the hissing stopped and the familiar Irish lilt rose in the air.

However, it came from the wrong face. It came from the wrong body. This one is not wearing Westwood. This one is wearing a generic grey jumper and black trousers with trainers and a ball cap.

"As much as I like seeing you stunned into silence, I would really like to have a proper conversation."

The mocking tone somehow grounded Sherlock back to the situation. "What is happening here?" He managed to say despite feeling the walls of his throat constrict against his words.

The man waved his hand dismissively. "Oh you know, just the usual meet and greet."

This is beyond the definition of usual. His mind began to review everything that happened previously as he tried to search for a plausible explanation to his current situation.

Nothing came up.

He hates not being able to come up with an explanation to anything. He always needs to know whatever is happening around him, that's why he felt a surge of anger as soon as he realized that he has no answer to his current dilemma. He unconsciously took one step forward and slowly stood on his full height as he nearly growled. "What. Is. Happening. Here?"

The face opposite him smirked, but as soon as his mouth opened, Sherlock is sent back to reeling in confusion. "That is a really stupid question to ask Sherlock. What else could be happening here?" The man opened both of his arms as he gestured around the room. "You are here to see me."

"You are not the one I was expecting to see." Sherlock narrowed his eyes towards the familiar man.  _'Because you are not the one I've been hearing.'_

"Oh I know. After all, apples don't make oranges." The man took off his cap and ruffled his raven hair. "But honestly this is your fault." The cap dangled in front of Sherlock as the man used it as a pointer.

"How could this be my fault?" His nails dug against his gloves as his hand curled into a fist. How could something be his fault when he couldn't even understand what is happening. The audacity of this man is pushing against his skin like barbed wire.

The other man left the monitors and proceeded to carelessly plop himself on the sofa at the center of the room. He then propped his feet up the coffee table before answering. "Well, you gave me his voice!"

The statement further deepened the crease in between Sherlock's eyebrows, but before he could voice his protest, the man released an exasperated sigh.

"Oh come on Sherlock! Don't tell me you haven't figured it out yet?"

His silence communicated his response.

"Really?" Disbelief clouded the face of the other man and Sherlock felt his fist twitch. "Oh my. You are seriously in trouble, aren't you?"

Sherlock felt his patience decay in exponential rate. "Just tell me what is happening here."

" _You_  tell me what is happening here." The man's trainers wriggled in front of him like a taunt. "How can you not notice the many peculiar things about this meeting?"

He had noticed, he just dismissed them under the idea that nothing was ever right when dealing with the other side.

"Okay, I'll make this easier for you." The man removed his feet from the table and leaned forward to rest his elbows against his thighs. "Let's start with when you walked into this building. Do you remember anything before you got here?"

He was talking with Mycroft in his car. They were on their way back to London.

"Yes."

The man rubbed his chin before continuing. "Okay, did you remember the route that you took?"

He didn't. "I was rather preoccupied."

"Fine, let's leave it at that." The man twirled his cap around his fist before meeting Sherlock's gaze again. "Tell me Mr. Detective, doesn't this place feel very familiar?"

It does, but he had been to a dozen marbled buildings like this. Those that aren't important tend to fuse in a haze of déjà vu. "There is nothing overwhelming about it."

"Isn't it odd that you immediately knew how to navigate your way around a new building?" The rolling cap came into a halt. "Almost as if you knew…where the rooms would be?"

"This place has a simple floor plan." It was divided into four wings, nothing peculiar about it.

"Quite right. Let's move on." Green eyes bore through him. "How did you know that we were supposed to meet here?"

Nothing.

His brain came up with no response.

His confusion must have been clearly displayed in his face because a smirk grazed at the seated man's face. "Ah, now we're getting somewhere. I should probably point out that you are not carrying any gun, which is kind of stupid if we consider who you thought you were supposed to meet." The man smirked. "Anyways, when I first spoke, you immediately thought I was Moriarty."

"It's because you sound like him." There is a slight buzz humming behind Sherlock's brain and the mention of a gun prompted his right hand to search for it in his waist.

He wasn't carrying any gun.

"And you immediately jumped into the conclusion that I was him." Insult is clearly embedded in that statement.

"You spoke like him."

"No, no." An index finger swung back and forth in front of Sherlock. "I  _sound_ like him and because of that, you immediately thought I was him. You even started referring to me as a spider. But I never confirmed my identity, did I?"

Snippets of the conversation bounced around Sherlock's brain. His hindsight proved to have quite an accurate hearing as he realized that the discomfort he had been feeling all throughout his conversation with the invisible man, was brought by the vagueness of his statements.

"Now, you're thinking. Didn't it even bother you that I seem to know about a lot of things?"

It did bother him. But he only attributed it to what he thought, was Moriarty's genius.

The man stood up and slowly walked towards Sherlock. "How did I know that you read about Moriarty's missing body from Mycroft's report?"

"Because you know that Mycroft will help me."

"True. But how could it have been possible for me to know that you've read it within a red folder, under page 5 line…10."

Sherlock doesn't know.

The man continued to stalk towards him. "How did I know how you killed yourself?"

"Somehow you must have slowly pieced it together."

"Oh, don't be ashamed to flatter yourself Sherlock. I'm not a genius like you or Moriarty. Your perfectly orchestrated suicide won't be easily figured out by someone like me." The man was only a few inches away from him. "So tell me, how did I figure it out?"

Sherlock doesn't know.

They were almost face to face, their breaths mingling into cold puffs "Look at me Sherlock, why do I look like this..." He gestured to his casual attire. "…but sound like Moriarty?"

The buzzing in Sherlock's brain continued to increase. He could also feel pressure in his forearms.

_Sherlock!_

"Why do I have this ball cap?" The man dangled the scrunched cap in between their faces.

Sherlock doesn't know. He doesn't know anything!

"You know Sherlock." The man's green eyes glazed with mockery. "You know very well why. You are just afraid to admit it."

The buzzing in his brain had spread and began to prick behind his eyes. He could also feel a slight tremor from his shoulders.

_Sherlock!_

"This is how you saw me Sherlock." Moriarty's voice continued to flow out of the wrong mouth. "This is how you have come to know me. But you don't have enough information so you took it upon yourself to fill the gaps…"

_Sherlock!_

"…starting with my voice."

It seemed like there is an earthquake inside Sherlock's body. His feet are still firmly pressed on the ground, but his head seemed to be stretching towards the ceiling.

_Sherlock!_

"You used his voice because you don't know how I sound like." A sneer grew in  _his_ face. "And you desperately needed to speak to me, so you created this place and made me talk."

His head continued to stretch upward and he had to desperately fight against himself to focus on the person opposite him. He wanted badly to retort but the tremor within him is squeezing his voice.

_Sherlock!_

"Why do you want to talk to me Sherlock?"

He doesn't know.

"Cut the crap. You know, Sherlock." The man stepped even closer to Sherlock and green orbs flashed like spotlight against his face. " _You and I_  both know that you do."

The monitors that were previously idle, returned back to life, but instead of showing CCTV feeds, they only displayed pictures of bloated bodies, those that he had seen just a few hours ago.

"Why do you want to talk to me Sherlock?"

_Sherlock!_

The center monitor was the last to resume its transmission. But unlike the others that displayed blood and gore, this one displayed a beautiful smile and radiant eyes.

"That's right Sherlock." The man tilted his head back to the monitor. "Look at the reason why you went into so much trouble to create this place; why you desperately wanted to talk to me."

_Sherlock!_

"Mycroft's getting antsy." The man patted him in the shoulders and it caused another set of tremors. "We don't have much time. I just wanted you to understand what is happening now Sherlock."

The bloody monitors started to flicker. But Sherlock's gaze was still locked at the center plasma screen.

"You and I both know what is about to occur." Sherlock felt the man step pass him.

_Sherlock!_

The whole room started to descend into darkness but Sherlock still can't keep his eyes away from the center screen. Even as the walls started to bleed black and the other monitors started to die down, his gaze remained set on the big brown doe eyes. It was the last thing he saw before succumbing into total darkness.

"Tell me Sherlock, where's Molly?"

* * *

**Earlier**

Mycroft reached for the folder on the table and opened it to take out one last photo. "It seems that  _he_ is also determined to destroy the very same network that was passed on to him." With a steady arm, Mycroft held out the picture underneath his brother's chin.

With a quick swipe, the younger man took the photo and settled his eyes on a surveillance shot of a capped man in grey jumper and black trousers sitting in what appears to be a park bench.

For the first time, he found himself staring at the man he has come to know by name, as Sebastian Moran.

* * *

"Can you try not retreating into your mind, while we are discussing something important?"

"Mycroft, why is there no picture of Molly?"


	7. Illusions

Einstein once said that _time is an illusion_. It's  _not Time_ per se, but the human perception of now, of tomorrow, of yesterday. To be more precise, he believed that what separates the past, the present and the future, is just an illusion albeit a very convincing one.

Well, it is not an illusion that is working well with Sherlock right now.

With every tick of the clock, he could feel the future slipping away from him, as the past closes in with its sharpened teeth of accusation and guilt. Every second reinforces the wall that separates  _now_ to _what will be,_ and every minute is sucking him to the black hole of  _what should have been._

He is losing against time.

 _Time_ is not even trying.

He would have felt insulted - losing is ridiculous, much more to something _abstract_ \- if only he isn't racked with anxiety and self-doubt. Sitting inside Mycroft's car is not helping either. As the sleek car moves closer to their destination, his mind is falling deeper and deeper into chaos. The restriction in space is keeping him from channeling the restlessness of his mind. His only consolation is that his body, especially his face, seems to be momentarily disconnected from his brain and he is successfully keeping a stoic façade.

"I sent a car for John."

Which of course, is not working on his brother.

In a snap, Sherlock's inner turmoil vanished as he looked at the faux face of calmness sitting opposite him. For a few seconds his synapses failed to make the connections. He is almost at the edge of believing that the numerous physical altercations he had been involved with -knocked to the ground, bashed in the head, kicked in the jaw, etc.- was finally manifesting its effects and he is now suffering from a head injury that is impeding his thought processes. Of course he knows that is not the case. It is not an  _injury,_  rather, it is something that he had once called and will still call: a chemical defect.

Mycroft on the other hand, is giving a very convincing imitation of a statue. He remained passive but unrelenting as he watched while his brother tries to make sense of what he had just said. He took the bold decision on his brother's behalf because otherwise, the younger man will only continue keeping a front that is only tearing him apart. He would rather receive a whiny, ungrateful rant than watch his brother suffer in silence.

He had already seen too much of that.

Mycroft Holmes, in all intents and purposes, believes in the knowledge that he had once tried to impart to his brother.

_"Caring is not an advantage."_

It will never be, especially for people who can blatantly see lies. A Holmes can't care too much because just as it is easy to see those who are pretending, it's also easy to pick out those who are only down-playing their concern. Sherlock can see through those facades, that's why although he makes very little connections, each of them ran almost as deep as the inane bond found within family.

Although it pains Mycroft to admit it, in only a few months, John Watson had become more of a brother to Sherlock than he had ever done for the past few years. He knows that Sherlock is truly lost without his blogger. Sherlock needs him now, more than he ever did before.

The moment the detective's brain started to work properly again, his thoughts rumbled like an engine train without brakes. He was immediately assaulted by offending jumpers, slow uptakes and sentimental tripes.

John

_John Watson_

_His flatmate. His blogger. His friend._

In a few moments, he is going to see John Watson.

_The man who trusted him. The man he had lied to. The man he had forced to bear witness to his death._

This is not exactly how he had envisioned his return. He was supposed to return when he had swept Moriarty's network, not while he is perfectly entangled in it. His resurrection was supposed to happen alongside the clearance of his name, not simultaneous with something that would muck him even further. He was supposed to walk back into  _their_ lives as a free man devoid of guilt, not a sewer rat racked with torment.

"He will be meeting us at the safe house."

The mention of the safe house catapulted his issues with John and his upcoming resurrection, to the back of his mind. There are much more pressing issues than his trampled ego and fear of John's reaction. One of which, is the life of his pathologist, Molly Hooper.

* * *

_"Mycroft, why is there no picture of Molly?"_

_The question is already too late. The nagging feeling had been pressing Sherlock since he had received the two envelopes a few months ago. A part of his brain had already realized what it was, but he is only acknowledging it now. He could only hope that the answer isn't too late as well._

_Mycroft Holmes pursed his lips as his fingers drummed against the smooth leather of his car seat. However, he never broke eye contact. Doing so will only convey meanings that won't do any good in this situation. Instead he chose to remain silent as he carefully gathered his thoughts. A few seconds passed before a sigh escaped from the older Holmes._

_"It took us months before we finally saw the connection between the deaths." Mycroft remained rigid and blank as he started, not quite answering the question. "Each of them was well staged and looked so natural. Our only clue was the background of the dead and the peculiar timing. All within one year, it was too good to be true."_

_"Answer the question!" Sherlock's impatience got the better of him, as it always did in the past. But just the same, Mycroft knows how to deal with his brother and he merely dismissed the outburst._

_"The moment we realized what was happening, we had to determine where the commands were coming from. However it soon became apparent that if Moriarty is a spider, Moran is a snake. He is very slippery. His trainings had thought him well on how to disappear but most important, it thought him how to kill_ _**efficiently.** _ _But I suspect that his creative methods stems from his association with Moriarty."_

_After reading Sebastian Moran's file, Mycroft_ _**almost** _ _regretted not finding the man sooner than Moriarty. Moran has brawns, but more importantly, he has brains as well. No wonder Moriarty kept him around._

_To Sebastian Moran, death is death, whether it is by bullet in the head or a tiny prick in the arm. Mycroft came into the conclusion that he is an excellent assassin as well as a blind follower. In the eyes of The British Government, the latter part was what made Moran almost as dangerous as Moriarty._

_Mycroft's refusal to give him a direct answer only increased Sherlock's aggravation. "Again,_ _**why is there no picture of Molly?"** _

_The older Holmes merely raised a hand as a gesture for Sherlock to be patient. "His behavior struck me as peculiar. Why would he destroy the legacy of his…Master? At first I thought he was cleaning up after himself but as the killings progressed, I realized that it was because a new chain of command had to be established. I must admit that up until now, his intentions aren't fully revealed to me. However, a few days ago, he sent a_ _**message** _ _that made one thing clear." Mycroft reached for the folder that had contained the pictures and pulled the only one with Moran. Leaning forward, he stretched his arm towards his brother, but Sherlock made no move._

_"I've seen enough of it." Sherlock glared at his brother instead of at the image that had been grinding in his nerves. Yet, Mycroft's hand remained suspended._

_"You are forgetting the basics Sherlock." He shoved the picture closer to his brother's face until the younger man grudgingly took it. "Never ignore anything."_

_Sherlock stared at the grainy photograph. Based on the timestamp, the quality and the angle, it was obviously a CCTV shot. Moran was at the center, sitting in a park bench with a small smile on his face. There was nothing extraordinary about picture, if Sherlock hadn't known who the man was, he could have easily dismissed it as an ordinary still from a surveillance camera._

_"You're missing it Sherlock." Mycroft reached out and tapped the lower left side of the picture. There, partially cut, was a profile of an old woman. "Two hours after that photo was taken, she was found dead in the same bench. Coroners said it was a natural death. Myocardial Infraction. It would have been left at that if it weren't for the fact that she's a retired financial advisor wanted for various cases of embezzlement. That, and because of the phone left beside her; a phone that was last seen to be in the possession of a young man sitting beside her, hours before her death."_

_Almost like dirt in the blurry picture, was the black phone in Moran's hand._

_"The phone was empty, except for one file." Mycroft waited for Sherlock to raise his head and meet his stare._

_"A picture._

_No further explanation is needed. It is already quite clear whose picture it was, and it only intensified the knots in the detective's guts. He had always assumed that she was going to be safe. She had this ability to blend and disappear in the background. Moriarty only saw her as a flimsy connection and Sherlock thought it would remain looking that way._

_He himself thought that theirs had always been a basic, practical connection driven by mutual benefits. It wasn't until the recent events that he had realized that the dynamics between him and his pathologist had long gone wayward._

_Too far from wayward._

_It had taken a detour from mutualism and drove straight off the cliffs of deep trust and loyalty. It still continues to go further and further down, to depths that he doesn't want to think at the moment. He thought that since his realization was so sudden and spontaneous, no one but he would notice. After all, it happened right before his death. He thought his eureka moment was buried alongside an empty coffin underneath his name._

_He expected too much._

_Now, he had put another person in the path of danger. It seems like it's the only thing he does nowadays._

_"Where is she?" He asked, his voice hinting with resignation._

_"We placed her in a safe house." Mycroft took back the picture, now with creases from where Sherlock held it. "We were waiting fo-"_

_"For me."_

_"No. For him."_

* * *

In between Moriarty hunting him from the dead in the form of Moran, Molly's life hanging in a balance and being minutes away from seeing her and John, Sherlock is already at the edge of his nerves and quite possibly, his sanity.

He lives on things, situations, and people that could stimulate his mind and he had developed an effective method in focusing on these stimulations: by ignoring everything else. In the process of doing so, useless information, body needs, and sentiment were all ignored. But this case,  _no,_ this situation, has opened a locked door. Now, his mind is flooded with inconsequential information ( _John got suspended once because he punched a kid who called Harry a lesbo),_  forgotten needs ( _Molly's touch was light and soft when she was tending to his wound)_ and repressed emotions _(both of them will surely be disappointed at him)._

It's beginning to overwhelm him.

Ahead of them, a mound of grey began to take the shape of a building.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's mind had shifted its focus from worrying over the upcoming reunion and subsequent chase, to keeping his body processes running. His breathes are shallower, he could hear his heartbeat in his ears, his skin feels clammy and his tongue is sticking at the roof of his mouth. His brain is so desperate in trying to keep him together, that it had abandoned any attempts of formulating a plan for what he is going to do once he meets John and Molly.

Emotions had finally short-circuited his mind. He might be on the losing side already.

"John's car is here as well." Mycroft said as he stowed his phone away.

Sherlock almost said " _bugger off"._ Instead, he just sank deeper into his car seat. He doesn't know what is exactly going on, he doesn't have a plan and he refuse to visit the only place that used to calm him down because it had ceased to be a safe place.

His mind and body had betrayed him.

If he can't trust himself, what and who else can he trust now?

Far too soon in Sherlock's opinion, the car stopped in front of a gate heavily guarded by uniformed and armed men. When he glanced outside, he saw another car stop. His breathe hitched when it opened revealed John Watson.

Except, it wasn't the Watson that he knew.

It was the John Watson that he had betrayed. Sunken eyes, hunched shoulders, slightly tremors. This is the ghost of the army doctor who had PTSD. This time though, it is not because of fallen comrades but because of a fallen detective.

"We have to walk from here."

Up until then, Mycroft had been silently observing his brother. Sitting in front of him is not Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective who has a brain that is far too large for his shoulders and an ego that is far too big for London. The one in front of him is Sherlock Holmes, the 11 year old boy left in the front porch of a mansion, as a black car bears away the only person who had ever understood him.

He left his brother alone when the boy was still trying to find his place in this world. He thought, Sherlock's genius was enough, because it  _had been_  for him. However, Sherlock never truly fitted anywhere. The younger man's sharp edges were too much for many people. Unfortunately, just as his brother had found those who had enough space in their lives, they were immediately taken away from him.

He could only hope that Doctor Watson and Miss Hooper could still piece together this broken puzzle of a man.

"Let's go Sherlock." Without waiting for his brother, Mycroft exited the car and walked to greet John.

Sherlock didn't follow immediately. He stayed inside and watched as pleasantries were exchanged between his brother and John. He's preparing his mind from a new complexity that will be born from his abrupt meeting with John. He's readying his face from the punch or punches of John. He will not even try to avoid them. But most important of all, he's readying his body for the emotions that will sweep through him. The recent happenings in his life had flooded him with too much sentiment that he decided he might as well bathe in it for once.

His gaze moved from the talking duo, to the looming building. Inside of it is his pathologist. He wonders how she's coping with her life being threatened. Somehow, he still sees her smiling. He could see her trying to strike a conversation with a stoic guard. He could see her humming away a pop song as she sits in her guarded room. He hopes they allowed her to bring Toby. It was a poor excuse of a cat but it made Molly happy.

Molly smiles even in the bleakest moment. Sometimes it results to awkward situations, but most of the time, it's contagious.

Will she smile when she sees him? Or will she slap him for taking her away from her perfectly normal life?

He will not flinch if she does blame him.

He only hopes that she will smile after.

He took a deep breath before reaching for the door handle.

_Time to get punched._

* * *

"You are dead."

"Obviously I am not."

"No. No. You. Are. Dead."

"You are poking me and seeing as you  _can_ poke me, evidence points otherwise."

Sherlock could see as John tries to take in the fact that he is there, standing and talking and not rotting six feet under.

"But I saw you…"

"You see but you don't observe."

It seemed like a clever retort while it was falling from his mouth, but the moment it was finished, it was obviously the wrong thing to say. John went livid as his hand closed into a fist. Sherlock braced himself for the impact. Mycroft on the other hand simply stood at the background. Physical altercations do not belong in his plate. He decided that he will let John have three punches at the most before he orders the guards to break them up so that they could proceed inside the gates, towards the building and into the bigger problem.

However, before John's fist connected into Sherlock's face, one of the guards rushed to Mycroft's side.

"Sir, we have a problem."

The unfolding commotion immediately stopped. Sherlock turned rigid while John froze. Mycroft had informed the doctor that Molly's life is being threatened by one of Sherlock's enemies, but he conveniently left out the connection with Moriarty.

Sherlock stepped forward and glared at the guard. "What do you mean?"

"Sir, the beta team assigned within the building is no-"

**BOOM**

...

...

...

* * *

_Some call it Sod's, some Finagle's, others Murphy's, but to him it's just…_ _**shit happens** _ _._


End file.
